Worlds Colliding
by Leaper
Summary: AU. Kurt Hummel, ambitious senior. Dave Karofsky, former Warbler. Blaine Anderson, BMOC. They've been through a lot. But their high school careers aren't over yet, and there's even more that must happen before they start finding themselves and what they want. Sequel to "A World Apart," encompassing all of S3.
1. TPPP1: Boys of Summer

**AN: Welcome, folks. This is the sequel to a previous story of mine, "A World Apart." If you haven't read it yet, I suggest you start there; I'm not going to spend any time recapping or going over the main premise/diversion from canon.  
**

**I just hope I don't disappoint with this sequel; I want to tell a good story, one that hangs together well and addresses some points and storylines in canon that I thought deserved more/better. (That also means backgrounding or cutting off some that seemed pointless or insulting. Hey, if I didn't at least _try_ to focus, we'd be here all year!) This is especially a concern considering there's obviously a subset of characters I'm focusing on here, as I did in the previous installment, for reasons which I think are already clear. Hopefully, these changes arise organically from character and divergences that already happened in "A World Apart."  
**

**Okay, enough talk. We're all in for quite a ride, I hope, so let's get started...**

Kurt Hummel was in another world. Maybe even another universe.

Yet everything seemed to be the same. It was still McKinley High School looming on front of him. It was still Lima, Ohio in which he was living. None of that had changed in the slightest.

But his life had changed, drastically, since this time last year. _He_ had changed. That one little fact altered everything.

As he emerged from his car, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Two keystrokes dialed a particular number, one he'd called _many_ times. One ring. Two. Three. Four. Kurt frowned; usually someone answered long before this. He was about to resign himself to voice mail when the ringing abruptly stopped.

"Hey, Kurt!"

Just the sound of the voice on the other end brought a smile to his face. "Hello, David."

"What's up? I, uh, didn't think you'd be calling right now..."

"I decided to get to school a little early for the first day. Did you need to go...?"

"No, no! I was just surprised, is all. You ready for your senior year?" Dave Karofsky's voice carried the slightest hint of mischief, which was puzzling, since there didn't seem to be any reason for it.

Kurt turned it over in his mind for a moment, then promptly dismissed it. He leaned against his car, not even thinking about how dusty it might have been making the back of his long gray coat. "Definitely. How about you? Everything going well at Dalton?"

"Uh... I'm doing okay. Just getting some things rolling."

Kurt nodded, forgetting for a moment that the gesture couldn't be seen. "Well, you get back to whatever you were doing. I just wanted to say hi before the school day started."

"Sure! I'll see you soon, okay?"

"I look forward to it! Love you!" The words were easy, casual yet not perfunctory, as if they expressed something that was so evident that speaking them was a mere formality.

"Love you too." The call cut off, and Kurt beamed, staring at the phone for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket and cutting across the McKinley parking lot in long strides. The day had definitely started the right way. Nothing could break his good mood.

No, not even the sight of Jacob ben Israel charging towards him, mike outstretched and cameraman jogging closely behind. Kurt had gotten used to this beginning-of-the-year rite of passage to begin with, and that short phone call with Dave seemed to put him into this bubble of contentment (and in less than three minutes!) Jacob couldn't possibly prick.

"Kurt Hummel!" the erstwhile gossip reporter yelled, waggling his microphone in Kurt's face like a phallus (and God, was _that_ a mental image he did _not_ need). "What have you been up to this summer? Started any more orgies? Planning a future that probably involves competing in a pathetic _RuPaul's Drag Race_ knockoff?"

Kurt shook his head, unable to keep a smile off his face. "Oh, Jacob, you pasty little troll doll, I missed you too."

But still... summer... Now _that_ was something worth remembering...

* * *

**June 3  
**

Dave's hand slipped around his almost casually. The warmth and roughness startled Kurt; at once, it seemed like the entire mall had emptied of people, of sights, of sounds. He stopped dead in the middle of the doorway, earning him annoyed glances he didn't even notice.

Dave, however, did notice, especially when he almost pulled Kurt off his feet, having not realized his companion's sudden stop. "Uh, Kurt? You okay?"

Kurt blinked. "I... uh..."

Dave looked down at their linked hands. "Oh, sorry. Did you not want to...?" He flushed. "Christ, I'm an idiot. I'm taking this way too fast, aren't I? I just thought, even if our relationship was just probationary, maybe we could..." He started to let go.

"No, no!" Kurt leaped forward, squeezing Dave's hand even tighter. "I was just startled! And... I've never actually held a guy's hand in public before."

Dave blinked and looked around a little, as if he were just realizing the stares they were getting from passers-by. "You haven't? Really?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "David, I've never actually _been_ with anyone. Who would I have held hands _with_?"

"Oh. Right." He took a breath, looking down at their joined hands once again. "So you don't mind...?"

"Mind? Are you kidding? It's kind of liberating, actually, when you think about how many straight couples take gestures like this for granted. I'm glad you didn't even think twice about it." Kurt began to walk again, confident; Dave actually had to scramble to catch up. "Anyway, if we're going to have a proper probationary relationship, we need to do what we'd do if we actually were together. And holding hands? Most definitely part of it."

"Sounds good." Dave paused, a grin coming over his face that Kurt didn't like. "So, when you said we needed to do what we'd do if we were actually together...?"

Kurt laughed. "Except _that_! God!" He whacked Dave square in the chest with his free hand; the other winced in surprise. "Nice try, Mister, but we have a _long _ways to go before I'll even think about that!"

"Ehh, no hurry. You're worth waiting for." He continued on, that silly grin still on his face. Kurt was half-conscious of the stares they were still getting, but as far as he was concerned, they could all go to hell.

* * *

**June 11**

"No!" Rachel gasped.

"_He_ teaches at NYADA?" Kurt asked, a hand brushing his chin in shock.

"One class a year," Gavroche said with a smile, sipping his latte. "Not only that, there's a core group of professionals who attend every performance there, including..."

Dave approached the table, coffee in hand. "Hey, guys. Still talking about NYADA?"

"That really happened?" Rachel's eyes grew as big as dinner plates.

"Hold me," Kurt said to her as he clutched her arm. "I think I'm going to faint."

"And that's not all!" Gavroche continued. "I hear that after the performance, they actually invited him to..."

"I guess so," Dave said, chuckling. "So if none of you mind, I'm gonna go back to the bookstore...?"

"Oh my God, oh my God..." Rachel seemed to have gone into some kind of catatonic state of bliss.

"Please tell me you're not making this up," Kurt begged. "I couldn't take it if you were."

Gavroche crossed his heart solemnly. "It's true, every word. When they met, the first thing Barbra said was, 'Kid, I think you've got a lot of talent...'"

Dave nodded, mostly to himself. "Yeah. So I'll be back in about half an hour." He waited for a brief second for an acknowledgment. As he predicted, none came. Shaking his head in bemusement, he walked off, leaving the other three teenagers to their discussion.

"Shut UP!"

"I swear! He got the script in front of the producers, who said..."

* * *

**June 19  
**

"Remember, Kurt, if I fuck this up all to hell, it's _your_ fault."

"_My_ fault?" Kurt repeated in mock outrage.

"Yeah. You were the one who insisted we do everything we'd usually do if we really were together. And you were dumb enough to trust me to plan our first 'date'." Kurt could hear the quote marks Dave put around the last word. He felt a little hurt, despite the fact that they'd both agreed, and insisted on, the point: this was all only probationary. They were free to stop at any time, and they were taking things slow. So why couldn't the rest of his brain get with the program?

Kurt soldiered on, question still unanswered. "Well, as you once said, I have very specific ideas of what a good date is like. But I don't have much of an idea of what _yours_ are. I was curious."

Dave grinned lopsidedly. "You know what they say about curiosity and cats."

Kurt chuckled, shifting slightly in his seat. He took another glance out the window of Dave's car, trying to figure out where they were going. But no, his knowledge of Westerville was still too limited. He gave up, instead turning over the single rose in his hand. "It's lovely," he muttered, sniffing at it.

"Yeah, you are," Dave replied with a smile.

"Flatterer." Kurt almost hit him with the rose before catching himself. "You know, Dave, I never thought you were this type..."

"And what type is that?"

"The mushy romantic. I thought I was the only one left. I mean, sometimes I feel like Mercedes and I are the only two people in Glee Club who don't ride the dating merry-go-round for all it's worth."

Dave chuckled. "Oh, you have _no_ idea how mushy I can be. My dad's the same way. Mom used to say that he could flip a switch: roaring drunk frat boy one minute and Casanova the next. I want to be like that myself; it's an underrated skill." He looked up. "Oh, here we are."

They pulled up to a familiar building. "Your house?" Kurt asked.

"Restaurants have you at their mercy. I don't like being at anyone's mercy. Plus, I'm cheap." Dave hopped out of the driver's seat and jogged to the other side, opening Kurt's door for him before he could. "Hope you're not one of those liberated types who thinks this is an insult," he said with a smirk. "I know you're a badass, stone cold SOB who doesn't need anyone coddling him."

"Damn right. I'll let it go this time." The two entered the Karofsky home. Kurt hadn't been there since the Warbler party, but even his limited exposure told him that things were very different this time: the curtains were pulled against the summer evening sun, the lights dimmed, the air smelled of flowers. They entered the dining room, and Kurt's jaw dropped. The table was set with glimmering silverware, actual china, a floral centerpiece bursting with a dizzying array of colors, a pair of candelabras (who owned those anymore?) standing by. Dave hurried forward, picked up a pilot lighter, and lit the candles; the room now flickered in a soft, cheerful glow. "Dave..." Kurt finally managed to spit out, "how...?"

Dave shrugged modestly. "My folks had a lot of this stuff packed away - never really used it." He pulled out a chair; Kurt dropped into it, as if dizzy. "Just a sec." He almost ran into the kitchen, and returned before Kurt could even take in anything more about his surroundings, carrying a pot and ladle. He spooned out the pot's contents into the bowl in front of Kurt before serving himself, sitting in the chair opposite his date. Kurt reflexively sniffed at the bowl; Dave snorted. "No, I'm not trying to poison you."

"No, no! I was just... Oh, hell." Kurt picked up a spoon (the soup spoon, on the outside where it should be) and dipped it into the bowl. One sip, and... His eyebrows rose. "Gazpacho," he said.

"Yeah. I figured it's hot enough outside as it is. Plus, no one has to babysit it on the stove or anything."

"You cooked all this?"

"You don't have to sound so surprised; I can read a cookbook. But my dad did help."

"Speaking of which... Where is your dad?"

"Out. For at least an hour. I made sure of that." He had his spoon in his mouth when his eyes widened; Kurt stifled a laugh. "Almost forgot!" He leaped to his feet and half-leaned into the living room. A moment later, soft violin music filled the room. Dave returned to his chair sheepishly. "Yeah, it's all fucking cliche, I know."

"Well," Kurt said softly, "some things are cliche because they work."

Dave beamed - there was no other word for it. It was as though his entire face was haloed by a Klieg light. "Cool." He took a sip of his soup. "After this, I got some salad, beef carpaccio, and ice cream for dessert. That I didn't make."

"Beef carpaccio... Isn't that raw meat?"

"Think of it like sushi," Dave chuckled, "only more manly." A moment of silence passed where only Vivaldi was heard. "So... how am I doing?"

"So far?" Kurt smiled. "Not bad." He returned his gaze to his soup as a silly, almost punch-drunk grin passed over Dave's face. "Not bad at all," he repeated under his breath.

* * *

**June 24**

"So, David..." Kurt began, trying to cram as much "casual" into his voice as possible, "where're you working this summer?"

Dave nearly choked on his pizza. "Oh, uh..." Finn cast a curious look at them for a moment before returning his eyes to his own rolled up slice.

Kurt sometimes wondered if he should just tell Dave the truth: that he knew about what Dave had done over the past several months to redeem himself, to make Ohio a better place for gay kids like them, to truly express those wonderful qualities of his that he used to deny existed. But no, not yet - that could put too much pressure on him, on their "probationary relationship." Better to take that slow (despite the fact, Kurt ruefully acknowledged, that he wasn't taking much else slow, so far).

Besides, getting these reactions from Dave and his friends still hadn't lost its fun.

"Well, my dad offered me a job at his office. Y'know, filing, answering phones, copying, shit like that." Dave shrugged.

"Ah." Kurt was far from a stupid person, and he knew Dave very well from their long association with each other. So it was very easy to notice that Dave only said that his father "offered" this job. He never said that he actually _took _it.

Another reason why he hadn't told Dave what he knew was that he was having a _little_ too much fun with the spying. He realized at the same time that it really was kind of creepy, but still, something about the thrill of the chase was oddly exciting. In this case, the breakthrough came completely by accident; on one visit to Westerville, he forgot his cell phone at home, and asked to borrow Dave's. While trying to bring up Finn's cell number in the contact list (he was one of those who never bothered to - horrors - _memorize _phone numbers), his finger slipped, and the autocomplete suggested the number of "Ferrell Youth Center."

Kurt quickly erased the errant "e," but the name stuck with him. That night, he looked into Google. Yes, Ferrell Youth Center was a Westerville institution, whose website advertised "an inclusive, welcoming community for children, teenagers, and young adults of all races, creeds, religions, and sexual orientations." It was this last that particularly piqued his interest.

He sat on his new potential knowledge for about a week. Today, he decided, was the perfect day to finish his little investigation; after all, he knew Dave wouldn't be working (because at that moment, he was downstairs, with Finn, playing some post-pizza Team Fortress 2). The woman who answered was exactly the kind of person Kurt was hoping for: friendly, knowledgeable, and talkative.

"Oh, David! Of course I know him! He's been _such_ a help here!"

"Yeah," Kurt said casually, "he told me about the program he's been participating in...?"

The prod worked better than he could've hoped. "Yes, the Gay Youth Mentor program! We're always so short of peer counselors - mostly because the demand isn't as high as with our more general programs - but the ones we have work so hard. David especially. He's so driven, I get concerned sometimes..."

"I see." There was a warm glow in Kurt's chest. "So what is it exactly he does? He wasn't really clear on that..."

"Well, there's the peer counseling, of course. But he's also been helping us organize activities and outreach, newsletters, classes... Some of his friends from Dalton Academy have been dropping by too, helping us out. I swear, in my eight years working here, I've never had so many volunteers! It's just so wonderful!"

"Yes. It is."

"I'm so sorry you didn't catch him while he was here. Did you want me to give him a message?"

"Oh, no, that's fine. In fact, please don't tell him I called. I want to surprise him."

"My lips are sealed. Oh, I have to go; you have a nice day, hon!"

"You too." Kurt turned off his phone and walked to the second floor landing. He looked down at the living room, where Dave and Finn were yelling and pounding at their controllers and jamming their elbows into each other's chests. _He's still trying_, Kurt thought. _He's trying so hard to be a better person..._ He wondered if he would've ever thought of this "probationary relationship" business if he hadn't known this. Maybe. Maybe not.

He felt a little selfish, thinking that this was somehow _all for him_; thanks to his little espionage (though he still mostly blamed Santana for that), and Dave's still consistent refusal to spill the beans, he knew it wasn't. This was for himself, for others... yet Kurt couldn't help that little part of him that declared that everything that Dave was doing was all for the love of Kurt Hummel... and _enjoyed_ it.

He shook his head, sighing. Oh, well; no one could be selfless _all_ the time, right? Not even Dave. So maybe, deep down where he wouldn't admit it, this at least partially was for...

No. No. That way lay madness. For God's sake, let Dave do this at his own speed. Let him reveal all when he felt comfortable doing so. And for the love of all that's holy, stop thinking you're the center of Dave's universe!

Yet when he went downstairs and said hello, when he saw Dave's face as he looked up in greeting... Kurt couldn't help but think that, at least to Dave, he _was_.

* * *

**July 4**

Kurt wouldn't remember the food, when all was said and done (fried chicken, potato salad, corn on the cob, and peach cobbler, all packed into a huge picnic basket by Carole in fit of old-fashioned domesticity).

He wouldn't remember who else was there (his father, Carole, Finn, and Rachel - who actually brought her own vegan-friendly fare, including a tofu casserole that was surprisingly good).

He wouldn't remember the conversation (the heat, the Reds, snarky comments directed at the guys nearby drunkenly chanting "USA!" at the top of their lungs - Kurt suggested counter-chanting "Afghanistan!" or something of that nature).

He wouldn't remember the fireworks themselves (besides the usual explosions and "weeping willows," Dave pointed out some of his favorite shapes: the cubes, the smiley faces, the ones that burst into a series of little comets flying every which way).

What he would remember, always remember, was lying on a blanket, the grass cool on his back, his head resting on the crook of Dave's shoulder, Dave's arm around him, watching the night sky light up with dazzling colors that played upon both their faces.

As far as he would remember, they were all alone: at the park, in Ohio, in the world.

* * *

**July 15  
**

"Would you like some more mashed potatoes, Dave?"

"Please! Thanks, Mrs. Hummel."

Burt couldn't help but shake his head and chuckle. "Dave, don't get me wrong - you're always welcome here - but between you and Finn, I might have to start raising prices at the shop to pay for all the food you two eat."

Dave's fork froze halfway between the plate and his face. "Oh. Uh, I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry about it. I meant it; you're always welcome. I remember what it was like being a hungry teenager." He looked sorrowfully down at his plate of rabbit food and the compost hockey pucks that Kurt claimed "tasted just like meat." Like hell they did. "I wish I could eat like that again."

"Dad!" Kurt scolded. "You know what the doctor said! You need to stick to your diet!"

"Dr. Powell is practically a stick figure," Burt whined. "You can't tell me he actually knows what it's like to eat like a human being..."

"So, uh, Kurt..." Dave began, obviously trying to steer the topic away from food, even as he put down his fork. "How are you, Rachel, and Gav doing with the NYADA thing?"

Kurt's eyes lit up; Burt smiled. He loved seeing that enthusiasm, that _love_, in his son's eyes. There was a long time when he despaired of ever seeing it again. "Oh, it's going great! Rachel and I are already planning out our audition pieces! I'm assigned to researching Carmen Tibideaux to figure out what she'd like to hear..."

"Who?" Burt asked.

"The dean of NYADA. She has quite the impressive career. Anyway, Rachel's keeping an eye on blogs for plans our rivals may have..."

"I assume Gav's been tight-lipped?" Dave chuckled.

"Very. He's been sweet to us, but I understand; I haven't said anything to him about our plans either." Kurt stared at Dave for a moment. "I hate to make you choose between me and one of your friends, but..."

Dave held up his hands. "Don't worry, I am NOT getting involved. I am Swiss. I am neutral. I'd be safer getting between a shark and a bucketful of chum than interfering with you guys."

Burt smiled as he chewed his way through his baby spinach (thank God for low-fat ranch and successful begging of his own son). "Sounds like you guys are pretty busy with NYADA." Kurt nodded firmly in reply. "Hope you're keeping up with your applications to other schools."

Kurt blinked. "Other... schools...?"

The table fell silent. Finn had actually frozen halfway through drinking his milk; it was pooling over his upper lip, threatening to dribble out of the glass. Dave looked a little stricken on Kurt's behalf. Finally, Burt rubbed his forehead and sighed. "I'm glad I heard about this before I got too busy. Kurt, I've been trusting you to make your own decisions about your future, but I gotta tell you..."

"Dad, I _have_ to get into NYADA," Kurt said with a note of pleading in his voice. "It's perfect for me. I have to focus on..."

"Focus, sure, but not like that. What if you don't get in?"

"I will! I have to!"

"But what if you don't? What good will it do your dreams to run out of options and have to stay in Lima?" There was no answer from Kurt to this. What answer was there? Burt sighed again. "Look, kid, I know this school's important to you. But it's not going to make or break your future. If you want this - and I know you do - you'll make it with or without NYADA. But you have to be prepared for whatever happens, and that means applying to other schools."

Kurt stared for a moment, as if absorbing the words. Burt could tell he was getting through, but there were still threads of resistance. Kurt turned towards his boyfriend (sort of boyfriend? Burt couldn't quite tell just what was going on there) with a hint of desperation. "Dave...?"

Dave shrugged. "Sorry, Kurt, I think your dad's right," he said with a tinge of misplaced shame in his voice. "'Course, that's probably because my own dad's been pounding the same thing into my head since last year."

"Kurt," Burt began gently, "I support whatever you want to do with your life. I want you to succeed, no matter what it is you succeed at. But that means putting in the work. And _that_ means not boxing yourself into one plan. You gotta have options, Kurt. Don't put all your eggs in one basket. I know that you'll achieve everything you want to do, even if things don't work out exactly the way you want, as long as you let yourself look at the big picture. NYADA can be part of it, but it can't be all of it." He put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Okay?"

After a long moment, Kurt nodded. "Okay," he replied hoarsely. "I guess... I can look into other colleges." He swallowed audibly. "But it feels like I'm setting myself up for a fall..."

"Dude, don't worry about it," Finn said cheerfully. "You'll kill your audition. And then we can all go down and see you on Broadway!"

Kurt smiled gratefully at him. For a moment, the meal continued, only the sound of clinking glass and silverware filling the room. "So, Dave..." Kurt looked up with an impish grin. "What colleges have _you_ applied to?"

Dave paused. "Uh... A few places... NYU... Hofstra... Vassar..."

Kurt nearly cackled. "Aren't those schools in _New York_? Why, you'd think you were trying to follow someone up there!"

Dave turned beet red. "Hey, not all of my schools are in New York! I'm applying to U Mass, where my dad went, and Virginia Tech..."

"But they're still on the East Coast. Wasn't a single Midwest or West Coast school worth your time? You hypocrite!" Kurt's voice was not at all annoyed or angry - only laughing and triumphant. "Talk about boxing yourself into one plan! No wonder you have my best interests at heart!"

"Hey, I wanted to go to New York even before I met you. Besides... it's a big place," Dave said weakly. "I thought... it'd be easier for both of us with a friend around."

"Uh huh. Right." Kurt's voice was joking, but Burt could see it: the gleam in his eye, the blush on his cheeks. He _liked_ Dave's determination, all right. "Oh, I'm just teasing, Dave. But I'm sure when it comes time to choose, you'll be _perfectly_ objective and consider only what's best for you."

"You know it." Burt didn't know Dave as well as he knew his son, but that look on the kid's face... It was almost as though he wanted to say "being near you _is _what's best for me."

But what did he know? He was just a mechanic making his way through life as best he could.

"Vassar?" he heard Finn whisper. "Isn't that, like, a girl's school?"

"It's been coed for years, Finn," Dave growl-whispered back. "Just for that, you're going DOWN in TF2."

"In your dreams, dude."

Burt shook his head, smiling as he sipped at his beer.

* * *

**August 13  
**

_Nobody on the road...  
Nobody on the beach..._

New Directions parties were usually barely controlled chaos, and this one was no exception. Rachel was in a corner seat blabbering about NYADA to a clearly bored Mercedes and a not-quite-following-the-conversation Brittany. Sam and Artie were arguing over whether the first or second X-Men movie was better. Mike and Tina were in their own little world, cooing and cuddling so much that even the romantically minded Kurt was a little nauseous. Santana was flitting from group to group, activity to activity, as if working off nervous energy. Lauren was unusually quiet, sipping at her drink and absorbing the goings-on around her, as if deep in thought.

_I can see you, your brown skin shining in the sun...  
_

Kurt's attention was mostly drawn to one particular side of the room. Finn was quietly singing with Puck on guitar and guest Dave Karofsky on harmony, providing a pleasing background-level musical ambiance to the whole proceeding. Still, looking over the room, he could tell: New Directions was a close-knit group, much closer than ever before. This evening was just one of a series of gatherings that had taken place throughout the summer months; rarely did a week go by when they wouldn't all get together, and willingly. Even as individuals, they had changed. Artie, never really a shrinking violet, was even more confident. Santana was much more mellow (although Kurt had the feeling there was a lot more behind that than he knew; she seemed to be considering something important - what it was, she wouldn't say, as was typical for her). Puck was smiling, genuinely, a lot more often. And while he wasn't entirely sure, even Rachel _seemed_ to be regarding her fellow Glee Club members in a new light; perhaps she was actually starting to see them even more as friends, and less as potential rivals and backup singers. Kurt hoped so.

_ I will never forget those nights... I wonder if it was a dream...  
_

Either way, he knew exactly what had brought this about: the Bully Whips. Working together for a common cause, seeing the positive effect they were having on other people, earning respect and gratitude, expressing their inner badass selves... It had done them all a world of good, and all were eager to continue in the upcoming year.

___Out on the road today, I saw a Black Flag sticker on a Cadillac..._

Perhaps not all; that was the only shadow over the gathering. Quinn was conspicuously absent. She had attended all the parties and get-togethers at first, but had become more and more noticeably withdrawn with each one, until she stopped showing up altogether. Phone calls, e-mails, texts, and even the occasional home visit failed to turn up more than a glimpse of her, let alone an explanation. Puck was especially worried; it seemed that a history like the one he had with her, no matter how painful or ill-fated, was hard to ignore. When Kurt asked him about it earlier, he'd just muttered "nothin' yet." But there was promise in his eyes; there would be _something_. He'd make sure of that.

_And I can tell you my love for you will still be strong..._

Gently cradling his cup of Diet Coke, Kurt got up from his seat and made his way to Dave, Finn, and Puck. Dave's smooth baritone wove around Finn's voice as the two finished up the final repetition of the chorus. He patted Dave on the shoulder, a prearranged signal between the two. Dave nodded and rose. "I'm gonna get some air, guys." He stepped out of the room.

Though Dave didn't see it, couldn't know it, his departure had a somewhat odd impact; every eye in the room turned to Rachel. Then slowly, one by one, the others began to step out, one or two at a time, as if on a schedule. Rachel was surprisingly oblivious to this, so deep was she in her paean to NYADA. "I've looked up the campus on the Internet, and God, it's beautiful! I can just imagine myself in the fall, when the leaves are turning brown, walking to class..."

Finn was on his feet, uncomfortable. "Kurt, are you sure...?"

"I think this is something we have to talk about," Kurt whispered back. "As friends. If we let this go, it'll just fester. You know that." In his mind, he breathed a prayer of thanks to powers he didn't believe in for the Bully Whips. If it weren't for that, he'd be afraid that what he, what they, were about to do would tear the Glee Club apart. But with the bonds the group had made over the past few months, there was a chance...

"Yeah, but... I dunno if I should be here. I don't want to look like I'm..." His breath caught in his throat. "At the same time, if I leave, maybe she'll think I'm abandoning her..."

"It's up to you, Finn." He didn't wait for his stepbrother to make a decision. Kurt approached Rachel, whose topic of conversation (monologue?) had, appropriately enough, turned towards the upcoming year's Glee Club schedule.

"... already decided what I'm going to do for my first solos. Got to keep up my training if I want to get into NYADA... Oh, Kurt, come join us! I was just talking about my suggestions for Sectionals, and what I could..." When Mercedes and Brittany rose as one and left, she blinked, startled. It was only then that she looked about her at the oddly empty and quiet room. "Kurt...?" Her eyes were searching, probably for Finn. Kurt gently knelt in front of his friend and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Rach... We need to talk."

* * *

**August 19**

"So have you heard from her yet?" Dave was sprawled across the Hudson-Hummels' front porch, sipping at a glass of lemonade. The glass was covered in condensation, cold and clammy in his hand.

Kurt shook his head. "Not yet. Finn's been calling her every day. She only answers him half the time. When she does, she refuses to talk about it. But... I think it went well. Better than I thought it would. I'd like to think she's actually thinking about what I said..." He sighed. "I'm still not sure it was the right thing to do. I mean, I agree with the others, but..."

"But she's still a friend."

"Yeah. I think we'll get through this. It's certainly a lot more likely than if we just held things back until it turned into a screaming match. But..."

"Gotta rip off the Band-Aid, huh?"

"In a manner of speaking." Kurt fell silent for a long moment. He felt, rather than saw, Dave scoot closer to where he was sitting. He definitely felt the warmth and weight of Dave's arm over his shoulder.

"Hey, how's Blaine doing?"

Kurt couldn't help but grin. No longer was he "Anderson" to Dave, spoken with a sneer and a dark look. "Last I heard from him, he's fine. He'll be back from Europe in a couple of weeks. I'll find him the first day of school to discuss the GSA. We've already gotten a lot rolling, but there's really nothing that can replace a face-to-face meeting..."

"Sounds like you have a lot planned."

"I do. This is going to be a busy and interesting year." Kurt nudged Dave in the side. "What about you? Think you can lead the Warblers to victory this year?"

Dave shrugged. "I have plans of my own..." Kurt waited for him to continue, but he didn't.

"So..." Kurt drank from his own glass of lemonade, thoughtfully provided by Carole. "The summer's almost over."

"Yep."

"So about our 'probationary' relationship..."

Kurt could almost see Dave's ears perk. "Yes...?"

"I think... I think it's gone pretty well so far."

"You're just saying that because I pay for your water park tickets." The joke was weak, told weakly, and they both knew it. There was too much here for levity.

"That's just one reason. I think... I think we've made a lot of progress. I think you've made a lot of progress."

"Thanks." Dave took a deep swig of his lemonade, as if trying to find something stronger at the bottom of the glass to steady his nerves. "So does that mean...?"

"We're off probation? I... I don't know. There's just too much going on right now to think properly. I feel like I'm being pulled in a dozen different directions..."

"Then the answer is no," Dave said firmly. "I don't want to be any more of a complication to you than I have to. I'm sick of doing that." He licked his lips, then continued. "Just... don't worry about me. I'm your friend. I'll be here, no matter what. Concentrate on yourself. Then we can talk about us."

"Thanks." Kurt leaned his head against Dave's shoulder, staring up at the cloud-streaked sky. "This is nice, though."

"Yeah."

"This isn't so bad."

"Nope."

And so the summer passed...

* * *

Kurt nodded, both to the camera and himself. "Now," he said to Jacob, "if you'll excuse me, I have more important things to do." He strode away, ignoring Jacob yelling after him. He'd find someone else to pester soon enough anyway.

As he approached the front doors of McKinley, he saw Artie and Finn waiting for him, each with _that_ grin on his face. It was a suspicious smile that Kurt had seen quite a bit of in his household of late: goofy, sly, and always directed at him for some reason. When asked, Finn's response was always an overly and unbelievably innocent "I just remembered a good joke" or "what're you talking about? I'm not smiling at anything." After a while, Kurt had just given up, assuming it was just Finn being Finn. But seeing that same grin now on Artie... His suspicions deepened.

"Hey, Kurt," Finn said with a cheery wave.

"Hello..." he replied slowly. "Artie." He nodded towards his fellow Glee Club member, who was looking like he was just barely able to keep himself contained.

"Hey, Kurt," Artie said. "As Bully Whips coordinator, I wanted to be on hand to make sure you met your first escort of the year."

"Look, guys, I appreciate what you've been doing, but I don't think I need an escort anymore. Just treat me like anyone else, and..."

"Oh, no," Finn interrupted, his toothy grin growing even wider. "You _want_ an escort."

"Oooookay... I'm just going to go in now, and you can tell whoever's escorting me that he or she can just find someone who really needs to..."

"No, wait!" Finn's desperate insistence brought him up short. "Just... wait a second, okay?"

Kurt huffed. "All right, what's going on? You two are acting like you're sneaking around behind my back, and I'm not sure I like it! Either you tell me what you're planning right now, or I'm going to..."

"He's here!" Finn cried, seemingly appropos of nothing.

"Kurt..." Artie said with a flourish, pointing behind Kurt. "Your escort." Kurt turned. A teenager in sunglasses and a black designer suit was approaching him, with a grin similar to those worn by Finn and Artie. That fact alone was not a surprise. But the _who_ of it was... "Our newest Bully Whip," Artie continued with a sly smile. "Treat him right, okay?"

Kurt gaped. "D-Dave...?"

**AN: And we're off! This may go quite a bit slower than the previous installment, since I'm still getting back into the groove and working out some of the details of how I want all these doggone plotlines to go. **

**As for the conversation between Kurt and Rachel, I'll return to it and revise if it turns out my instincts are wrong. But given the different circumstances from canon, I can't help but believe that it's an issue that would be put on the table directly, and before the school year begins. It'll be explained fully as time passes.  
**

**Now, according to my plotting, there's one character in particular who's a major impetus for change in this 'fic, one that I think/hope is in character based on existing canon. Despite what you may think, it is _not_ Dave (although he did start the factor that led to this character becoming the impetus for change). You'll find out who in the next chapter...**


	2. TPPP2: I Can't Back Down

**AN: I hope I made clear in my author's note for chapter 30 of "A World Apart" that I would NOT be updating this story there. Oh, well, I think it's heavily implied (and I've rewritten that note since), and I hope my readers are smart enough to figure it out. :)**

Kurt was still staring at Dave, his mouth hanging open comically, so at first, he didn't even notice the small knot of Warblers suddenly appearing out of nowhere to gather behind their fellow singer. A few students entering the school slowed down to stare, but just as many passed by. Some were freshmen too wrapped up in their own worries about their first steps into high school to take in their surroundings, while others were seniors jaded by the occasional bouts of craziness McKinley tended to suffer. So Dave had only somewhat of an audience when he began to sing.

_What day is it? And in what month?_  
_This clock never seemed so alive..._

Dave's voice, and the a capella backup of the Warblers, caused more people to stop and watch. Finn was grinning like a madman and Artie kept his smug smirk, but Kurt didn't pay either of them the least attention. He felt himself taking a step towards Dave, but he could swear, would always swear, that he didn't consciously command his body to move. It just... did.

_'Cause it's you and me... and all of the people... with nothing to do..._  
_Nothing to lose..._

There was no guitar accompaniment; of course not - that wasn't the way the Warblers rolled. And Kurt was only mildly familiar with the song. But to his ears, it was like he was listening to the radio... No, it was _better_. Obviously better.

_There's something about you now... I can't quite figure out..._

That, Kurt thought, is a bald-faced lie. Given the look on Dave's face at the moment, he would probably go on for hours about what he was finding attractive in the person he was looking at. And damn if that wasn't flattering.

_Everything he does is beautiful..._  
_Everything he does is right..._

Dave gave Kurt a little wink at the gender-flipped lyrics. Kurt's eyes vaguely flickered towards the Warblers behind him. David was there... Where was Wes? Oh, yeah, he graduated last year, didn't he...? Trent was there, and... And why on Earth was he paying attention to them _now_? Maybe because the main feature of this... this _serenade_ was so surreal, especially in everything it was hinting at, that his mind couldn't deal with it for more than a few minutes?

_And it's you and me and all other people..._  
_And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you..._

True to the lyrics, Dave's attention hadn't left Kurt since he started. He didn't do a lot of dancing (he'd once told Kurt that learning choreography was by far his least favorite part of Warblers performances, no matter how simple), but neither did he stand ramrod straight and frozen like many amateurs. It seemed that his entire body, not just his eyes and voice, were focused on Kurt as he sang. Kurt might've been uncomfortable with such focus under other circumstances. But these were not "other circumstances."

_What day is it? And in what month?_  
_This clock never seemed so alive..._

Even before Dave's voice faded to nothing, as he gently took Kurt's hands, some of the gathered passers-by began to applaud. Finn and Artie joined in, the former's enthusiasm turning his claps into booms in Kurt's ears.

"D-David..." Kurt began, his breath being sucked from his lungs by some unseen force.

"Hey," was the smiled reply.

"Wh-What... what was that? What are you doing here?"

"It's the start of your senior year, and my first day here. I wanted it to be special."

Kurt swallowed. He'd been fearing this since the moment he laid eyes on Dave. A conversation, overheard at a party, forced itself into his memory. "Your first day here? You're at McKinley now?"

The smile slipped. It was almost imperceptible, but to someone like Kurt, who knew Dave so well, it was as clear as a neon sign. "Yeah."

"But... what about Dalton?" He thought he knew the answer to his question, all too well, but he wouldn't know for absolutely sure until he heard it straight from Dave's lips.

This time, the slipping smile was too obvious for anyone to deny; some of the Warblers in the background looked uncomfortable and sad. "I'm... not at Dalton," Dave sighed. "Dad... we couldn't afford it anymore." Kurt felt his heart heave in his chest. "He tried, he really did. But I was at my limit with scholarships, and business at his practice hasn't been so good lately..."

"Oh, David, I'm so sorry..."

"Hey, it's not all bad." Dave put on a brave smile. "When I realized I'd have to go to public school, I thought, why not come down here? I can audition for a Regionals-winning glee club and be with someone I care about." He squeezed Kurt's hands. Kurt blinked; he'd forgotten they were holding hands (right in front of McKinley, in front of everyone and anyone who happened to pass by!) until that moment.

_Why not come down here? _The statement brought another question into Kurt's mind. "If you're coming to school here... where are you living? You're not commuting every day, are you?"

"Oh, God, no. No, I'm living in Lima."

"Where? Do you need a place to stay? Because there's a guest room at my house, and..." Kurt could feel himself start to babble, feel himself being carried away in this weird rush of emotion, but he was too caught up in it to fight. Might as well let it take him where it would.

Dave laughed. "Kurt, do you really think your dad, as much as he likes me, would let me live under the same roof as you now that we're sorta dating?"

Kurt's lips wrinkled in chagrin. "Not in a million years."

"I thought not. Besides, my dad insisted that I couldn't just mooch off you either. That's why I'm living..."

"With me." Artie rolled himself forward, his satisfied grin suddenly not so annoying in Kurt's mind. "In exchange for room, board, and food, he's my personal slave."

"_Attendant_," Dave chuckled. "I help him with his chair when his parents aren't around, go with him when he exercises, stuff like that."

Artie put on an artificially effeminate and high pitched voice. "Yes, his _manly, manly_ arms are very useful around the house." He fluttered his eyelashes dramatically. Even most of the Warblers, who had little idea who Artie even was, laughed.

Kurt, however, was not laughing. He glared at his fellow Glee Clubber with a fearsome look that made even the normally unflappable Artie swallow nervously. "So you knew Dave was coming...!" His eyes snapped to Finn, whose smile suddenly vanished under a haze of fright. "And you _had_ to know! That's why you've been acting so weird this past week! And both of you kept this from me!"

"Dave asked me if he knew someone he could stay with that he could do odd jobs for!" Finn burst out, as if desperately trying to keep an enraged serial killer at bay. "I just pointed him to Artie!"

"Sorry, Kurt, that's my fault," Dave cut in. "I didn't want you or your family to feel obligated to put me up. Besides, I wanted to surprise you... in a good way this time." His hands rose to circle Kurt's shoulders, which he did nothing to stop. "If there's anyone to be mad at, it's me. Forgive me?"

"Well, I dunno..." Kurt began slyly. "I suppose it was kind of sweet."

"Hell, yeah. Goddamn hearts and flowers _romantic_."

"Maybe a little. Okay, forgiven."

Dave grinned. "Cool. Hey, I'm gonna say thanks to the guys, okay?" He cocked his head towards the waiting Warblers.

_Thanks... and goodbye._ Kurt was barely able to nod; the thought had sucked some of the happiness straight out of his chest. But as he watched his (probationary) boyfriend approach his friends with a hearty "Thanks for coming out here," he resolved to help Dave get over the loss of Dalton as much and as soon as possible. His... no, _both_ their senior years were going to be magical, if he had anything to say about it. And God help anyone who stood in the way of that goal.

* * *

"Blaine Anderson! Santana Lopez!" By the time Jacob caught up with the couple, walking up to McKinley with the former's arm over the latter's shoulder, he was panting. "What do you say to the rumors about the two of you breaking up over the summer? Is McKinley's top power couple no more? What does this mean for the Bully Whips?"

Santana turned towards the camera with a white, dazzling smile. "Jacob, I want to assure your viewers that no matter what our relationship status, the Bully Whips are back and as strong as ever."

"That's right," Blaine chimed in. "We won't let our personal affairs get in the way of the good work we do. As for our relationship... _that's_ our personal affair, and it's really not anyone else's business but our own. All we'll say for now is that we are, and will remain, close."

And it was actually true, no matter how much the fact continually surprised him, and especially Santana. Not a week passed during Blaine's summer in Europe when he didn't either talk with Santana over Skype or receive some sort of missive from her, even if it was as brief as "It's as hot as balls over here." While he didn't tell her everything he did there (not even close, my God), he certainly said more, missed her more, than he did his actual family. Even more shockingly, she actually seemed to be mildly interested when he talked about his classes or the Louvre, obvious even through her carefully posed yawns and filing of her nails. _Santana Lopez... Giving a damn... _It was such an alien thought that it used to make him a little dizzy. Now he was actually growing used to it.

"Santana," Jacob continued, "you've been seen in the company of Coach Sylvester in deep conversation. Does this mean you'll be making a return to the Cheerios?" Fortunately, the cameraman was focused on Santana during this moment; if he'd been panned out more, he would've caught Blaine's head turn towards his "girlfriend" with a startled expression at this news.

"No comment," Santana said mildly. "I will only repeat that nothing in our personal lives will stand in the way of the Bully Whips doing their duty." Without another word, Santana continued her walk up the McKinley front steps; the still discombobulated Blaine had to take longer strides to keep up.

As soon as the two were safely in the middle of the chaos of McKinley's halls, Blaine stopped Santana and gently led her into a quiet alcove. "San, what the hell?"

"What?"

"What was that about you and Sylvester? Are you really going back to the Cheerios? Why didn't you tell me...?"

Santana snorted. "Like you told ME everything you did in Europe."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You got laid. By a guy."

Blaine immediately turned a bright crimson, looking about him wildly in panic for any sign that the milling students passing by heard a word. "I did not!"

"Hey, it's no skin off my nose. Hell, I approve; if you're just gonna fuck and leave, it's a lot easier if they're in another fucking country. Just don't deny it. You're talking to the queen of casual sex here; I can _tell_, Blaine. For one thing, you're not nearly as uptight as you used to be. For another, you've been home for weeks, and you're _still_ practically fucking glowing_._"

He coughed, tugging at his collar. "You're dodging my question. Were you or were you not talking to Sylvester?"

Santana stared at him with an oddly blank expression for a long moment. Finally: "So what if I was?"

"What about the Glee Club? Don't you like them?"

"I _like_ performing. I can do that with the Cheerios. At least with them all the crazy is concentrated in just one person."

"But what about the Bully Whips? They're all in the Glee Club, and now you're gonna piss them all off..."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Like they're going to stop if I leave Glee. I told you, that was the best part of getting them involved: they're so guilty over Kurt that they'd jump at any chance to make up for it. Besides, they're, like, addicted now. To doing good. To making a difference..." Her voice trailed off at these last words. Her head turned a little, as if unable to keep eye contact with Blaine any more. She looked over the crowds of students passing by. "Freshmen," she snorted. "They get more pathetic every year..."

Blaine gently took hold of Santana's chin and turned her face back towards his. He was painfully aware that had he been anyone else, apart from Brittany, she would've cut his hand off at the wrist for his presumption. As it was, she only blinked up at him. "C'mon, San. I'm worried."

"Why?" she spat. "It's just the glee club, a stupid extracurricular."

"And you love it." She sneered at this, but he pressed on regardless. "And you care about the Bully Whips. It's your legacy. You wouldn't risk it like this, even a little bit, unless something was wrong. So what is it, San?"

Blaine wasn't sure, but he could swear that her eyes were starting to water. She turned away from him, facing a wall, so he'd never know for certain. "I never told you any of that, you know," she said, her voice trembling and phlegm-y.

"You didn't need to. What, you didn't think I actually listened to you all those hours we've spent together? Who do you think you're talking to? I'm your boyfriend, remember?" He laid a hand on her shoulder; she flinched, just a little, but she didn't run. Then again, she didn't turn around either. "Santana..."

"Coach said..." Her words broke before she could continue. Santana fell silent again for a moment, then turned back to Blaine, her face almost trembling with the effort it took to remain blank. "Coach Sylvester told me that I was needed."

"For the Cheerios? Or to take down the Glee Club?"

"Both. She said... No, she _implied_... That if I didn't..."

As a fellow deeply closeted teenager, Blaine's mind immediately jumped to a conclusion. "You mean...?" Santana nodded. "She'd really do that to you?" _Blackmail... God..._ Just a few months ago, he would've had a smug smirk and a smart remark for Santana about tables being turned, but the two of them had long since blown past the point of blackmailer and victim. Then Blaine remembered his own life: charming, wheedling, smiling, ego-petting. _Was that any different?_ The potential answers caused him to shiver; he shoved the thoughts out of his head and redirected his attention to Santana.

"I wouldn't put it past her. But here's the funny thing: even if she doesn't really mean it, I was thinking of going to her and begging for my spot back anyway."

"What? Why?"

She was silent for a long moment. She crossed her arms, rubbing her triceps as if trying to ward off a non-existent chill. When she finally spoke, it was almost a whisper. "Because when I was on the Cheerios, life made sense..."

Blaine didn't even think about asking her to explain. "You were on top," he said quietly. "You could just do whatever you wanted, and people would get out of the way. You didn't have to give a shit about anyone but yourself, because you were just that badass. Everything was just so simple."

Santana nodded, still not meeting his gaze. "I just... I didn't want any of this. I just wanted to enjoy high school, you know? I... I need to feel like I'm back in control. I don't know if I can deal with everything right now. Is that so wrong?"

Blaine shook his head. "You know I'd be a fucking hypocrite if I said yes."

"Tell me about it, Mr. Friend of Aslan."

"But... what about all those parties you've been going to with the glee club all summer? Sure sounds like you were doing it willingly."

Santana rubbed her forehead. "Complicated again. I told you, I can't take any more complicated. Not right now."

"Brittany will be disappointed."

"Not if I get her back into the Cheerios too. You know I can do that. Hell, she might even get to stay with the Glee Club too. They actually _like_ her."

Blaine decided to let the comment go. "This is a step back for you, San."

"Does it look like I give a shit?" Blaine almost said that it did, at least just a little, but he knew that wasn't what she wanted to hear, so she wouldn't hear it. "High school is supposed to be the best years of our lives, before we have to worry about stupid shit like mortgages and insurance. Why can't I take a little time to just be mindlessly happy for a while? Why am I supposed to be all grown up before I even graduate?"

"So, what, if Sylvester tells you to spy on the Glee Club and destroy them from within, you're gonna do it?"

Santana shook her head. "I... I don't know."

"But you do know she's going to ask. So what happens then?"

"I said I don't know! I'll figure it out when it happens! I just... I just _need_ this, okay? What I don't need is you giving me shit about it!"

"Fine," Blaine breathed. "Fine." He didn't want to antagonize Santana anymore, and for reasons other than his own personal health. _If I stay on her good side, maybe I can keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't snap... _The very thought almost amused him. _God, look at me, the guardian angel. I am _such _a __pussy now._

Santana nodded briefly at him, then turned and walked away without another word. Blaine snorted; the nod was even more than he was actually expecting, than he actually even got from her. He turned in the direction of his locker, only to immediately come face-to-face with the bright porcelain smiling visage of Kurt Hummel.

Blaine started, almost physically jumping back. "Jesus! Where the fuck did you come from?"

"I'm sorry, Blaine, did I startle you?" He didn't sound at all sorry; in fact, he was practically fucking _radiant_. Blaine tried to tell himself that he didn't care why Hummel seemed so happy, but the mental words seemed to fall flat even to his own ears.

"No! Well, maybe a little. Whatever." He willed himself to relax. "So what did you want?"

"I wanted to give you the flyer." Kurt handed over a piece of paper entirely too full of rainbows and curlicues for Blaine's liking, advertising the first meeting of the McKinley High School Gay-Straight Alliance.

"Okay, sure. I can get a few dozen of these printed up by tomorrow, no problem."

"Have you talked to Principal Figgins yet?"

"This afternoon. But you know him; he'll do whatever I ask him to."

"Ah, I never thought I'd see the day when his spinelessness would work in my favor." Kurt smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the florescent overhead lights. Goddamn him, Hummel really _was_ glowing. _I'm not going to ask, I'm not going to ask..._ "So how was your summer abroad?"

Blaine smiled a little, despite himself. "Good. It was... eye opening. It was my first time out of the country, y'know, so it was... really cool." His eyes involuntarily flickered up and down the hall; no one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to either of them, so he continued. "What about you? How was summer here in good ol' Lima?"

"It was eventful enough." Kurt looked into Blaine's eyes for a moment; Blaine felt as though he wanted to run, or melt, or some combination of the two. "You look good. Better."

"Thanks. Y-you..."

Blaine would never know whether he would've had the courage to finish his sentence. It was at that moment, naturally enough, that Dave Karofsky appeared. "Hey, Kurt, I found my locker and... Oh, hi, Blaine. Good to see you back."

Blaine blinked; no, it was not a mirage, Karofsky really was right there, dressed in actual normal clothes (and by normal, he meant _normal_ - full of flannel and denim and not a single designer label to be seen). He and Karofsky had had a rather... odd friendship ever since the Junior Prom. Strained, perhaps? They'd talked mostly by the occasional e-mail and Facebook message (though the latter were often just links to weird and funny shit one or the other had discovered somewhere else on the 'Net). Their banter was friendly enough, but never heavy, or even serious; there were weeks that passed when neither said anything to the other, only to explode for a few days in huge back-and-forths about random crap. It was weird and tentative, but at the same time, Blaine appreciated it. The dude was trying, and God knew Blaine could use all the friends (the _real_ friends) he could get. But still... "Uh, hi... Karofsky..."

"Oh! Of course you're surprised!" Kurt got this silly grin on his face as he wrapped his arm around one of Karofsky's. Blaine's heart thudded into his stomach, feeling the acids there burn it to a shriveled husk. Of course, that was because he knew they were together (as he always figured they would be) and he was alone. Just a little generalized, misdirected jealousy. That was all. "David's transferred to McKinley!"

Blaine had had long experience in lying and hiding. So it wasn't particularly difficult to put on a polite smile. "Really?"

"Yeah," Karofsky said. "It wasn't really my choice, but... I'm making the best of it." He smiled down at Hummel with such joy that Blaine felt an impulse he hadn't felt for a long time: the urgent desire to punch that happiness right off Karofsky's goddamn face.

But if there was one thing that Blaine knew, needed, it was control. He knew his face hadn't changed one iota in the past few minutes, and he was perversely proud of the fact. Same with the evenness of his voice when he finally said, "Well, welcome to Hell, I guess."

"Oh, Blaine, McKinley isn't _that_ bad!" A surprised look came over Hummel's face; he shook his head and chuckled. "Fine, maybe it is, a little. But we're going to make it better. Together."

"That include Karofsky?"

"I think so?" He looked up at Karofsky, who nodded. "He was a f... member of a GSA back at Dalton, so I'm sure he'd be happy to help us out here."

Karofsky nodded again, regarding Blaine with a friendly look that was neither wanted nor deserved. "Definitely. Thanks for having me on, guys."

"Great." Blaine's eyes returned to the hall, looking for something, anything to distract him from the rather intimate and familiar touching Hummel and Karofsky were engaging in (it actually wasn't anything more than arm-holding, but to him, it might as well have been full-fledged half-naked making out). A flash of crimson caught his attention, attached to a hairstyle he wasn't familiar with. Huh, did the Skanks get a new member? Why did she look so...? Then the pieces fell into place. "Holy shit..."

"What?" Kurt looked behind him in bewilderment.

Blaine pointed. "Isn't that... Quinn?"

Hummel stared. "No. It can't be. It... Oh, my God, it _is_."

Karofsky squinted down the hall at the receding figure, with her short-cropped dyed hair and black leather-heavy clothes. "The Quinn who's in New Directions? Seriously?" He stared in surprise. "That's some makeover."

"It's more than that, David," Hummel said firmly, as Blaine tried to ignore the familiarity that oozed in his voice when he said that name. _David._ "You don't know Quinn as well as we do. This... isn't like her."

"_That's_ an understatement," Blaine snorted. "I have a feeling this is why Abrams couldn't get in touch with her about the Bully Whips schedule. Seriously, dude, this would be like me suddenly wearing bow ties and designer sweaters everywhere."

"I don't know," Kurt said with a grin, "I think that'd be a good look for you."

"God, don't make me vomit," Blaine laughed, stuffing as much good natured venom into his voice as he could to push out the blush he could feel surging into his cheeks. "Anyway, I couldn't give less of a shit about Quinn Fabray..."

Kurt raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Uh huh."

"But a Bully Whip becoming a Skank? That's not something that reflects well on the rest of us. We're going to have to do something about it."

"Because she's a friend and a human being who deserves it, right?" Kurt asked pointedly.

"Yeah, whatever."

"I'll see if I can find out what's going on." The trio jumped a little at the ringing of the first bell. "Dave and I should get going. Don't forget our pre-GSA meeting after school!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Blaine watched Kurt and Karofsky make their way down the hall, still arm-in-arm. His fingers practically tore at his hair. "Shit, Anderson, pull yourself the fuck together," he growled under his breath. It took him a minute, but he finally felt himself under control. So it was that the Blaine Anderson that strode down McKinley's halls on the first day of the 2011-2012 school year was the one everyone expected to see: confident, arrogant, unflappable.

* * *

"You're quitting." Puck's voice was flat as he and Lauren stalked McKinley's halls for the first Bully Whip patrol of the year. They were supposed to be taking separate halves of the school, but he couldn't find it in himself to give a shit at the moment.

"I have to concentrate on my wrestling," Lauren replied. "No offense, but after last year's disaster, the Glee Club isn't exactly part of my 'cool' factor anymore." She touched his arm; that stopped him dead. The two turned to face each other. "Don't worry, I'm not leaving the Bully Whips. You think I'd give up being able to scare the crap out of fucktards and rock this suit every week? No fucking way."

"But..." Puck's throat suddenly felt dry. Why the fuck was he so nervous? He was the _Puckasaurus_, dammit. Untouchable. "What about... uh... us...?"

Lauren's face softened; to Puck's surprise, she somehow became even _more_ hot without that perma-scowl that sometimes seemed etched onto her face. "Actually... I _was_ thinking of breaking up with you a while back... I guess I kinda thought that we were only together because we're both smokin'..."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"No, but I kinda wanted more, y'know? I wasn't sure you could give that to me. But after this summer... I actually think you can now."

Puck felt like his face was about to split apart, he was smiling so hard. _Damn, when did I get so whipped?_ "Really?"

"Yeah. You actually got a soft, sweet side to ya."

"No, I don't!" His offended tone made Lauren laugh.

"Uh-uh, Puckerman, you gotta own it. It's a good thing. I mean, I'm an undeniable badass, but even I like knowing that my boyfriend cares about me and thinks about me and all that. I really liked the time we spent together these past few months. A lot more than I thought I would, even when we weren't making out." She reached out and rubbed his cheek affectionately. "Face it, you're stuck with me."

"Damn." The two kissed, something they'd done many times before, but this time... it seemed softer somehow. Mushier. And damn if Puck didn't mind that in the slightest.

* * *

Will Schuester was a dynamo. He _felt_ like a dynamo. Despite how the previous year ended, it had been a pretty damn good one for New Directions. They'd gotten funding to last a good portion of this year, they'd gotten to Nationals and almost made the top ten, and they'd even gotten fans. An _audience_. (And, of course, he'd gotten Emma, but that was a complete side note.) So when he entered the choir room that first day, he was practically skipping, filled with plans and hopes...

The kids, _his_ kids, were already gathered there. But as soon as he saw them, Will frowned. They certainly seemed normal: chatting, waiting, listening to music... But there was this air of... _tension_ in the room, like an undercurrent of hot, angry emotion boiling under the surface. He looked about at the varied faces he'd come to know over the past couple of years, but couldn't see where it was coming from. He shook his head; no sense worrying about it unless it interfered with the club's performances. "Welcome to another year, guys!" he said cheerfully, clapping his hands together. "Now, I know we're still disappointed about last year, and I have to admit my Broadway ambitions sidetracked me for a little while, but we know we can do it, and aren't going to let anyone or anything stand between us and the National title!"

A ripple went through the room, and Will's concern deepened. To be sure, there was excitement, as he'd expected, but that tension had only increased. Mercedes looked like she wanted to say something, but snapped her jaw shut before a single word escaped her lips.

Will decided to press on. There was no point to poking at the atmosphere right now, and there were more immediate concerns to address. "Our first priority is to fill in the gaps left behind by Sam, Quinn, and Lauren. In fact, before we go on, I believe there's someone who can bring us up to ten...?"

Kurt rose with a grin on his face. "Certainly!" He marched to the doors and opened them, admitting a familiar young man. "Ladies and gentlemen, I believe you all know David Karofsky. He would like to audition to become a member of New Directions!"

"Hi." David waved, a little shyly.

"I heard you already gave quite a performance outside this morning," Will remarked. David's face immediately turned red. "But since not all of us were around to hear it, I think we'd all love to see what you have for us today."

Kurt gently led David to the middle of the room. "Don't be nervous, Dave, we're all friends here." Someone in the risers coughed; Will didn't see who it was. "Knock 'em dead." He patted David on the back - a superficially casual gesture, but one that sent one of Will's eyebrows up. Before he could even think of commenting (not that it would have been wise to do so), Kurt was back in his seat, and Brad was starting to play.

Dave's piece was a brief medley of Sinatra songs (the same piece, Will would later discover, that he auditioned to the Dalton Academy Warblers with), clips running the gamut from "Witchcraft" to "All Or Nothing At All." Will listened with an objective ear, and was all in all quite pleased. This was a voice that could fit in well with the rest of the group, not to mention fill in a vocal pitch gap that he'd been worrying about for a while. So when Dave wrapped up the medley with "Where Are You," to the applause of the rest of the club, the decision was pretty easy (not that it usually wasn't, especially under these circumstances, but Will liked to think he was being at least a _little_ selective here). "That was great, David. I'd like to officially welcome you to..."

"Wait a minute!" Will froze. He hadn't anticipated an interruption like this. He slowly turned to see Rachel sitting up straight in her chair. "Shouldn't we put this to a vote? Or at least think about this? He's from the Warblers. Our _rivals_. What if he's just spying on us for them?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "By leaving Dalton and all his friends? That would be a _masterful_ plan."

"All I'm saying is that we have to be careful. We beat them at Regionals, and they could be looking for revenge!"

"In case you forgot," Kurt cut in, "_I_ was in the Warblers at Regionals. Do you think I'm looking for payback?"

"Well, no, but..."

"Oh, God, stop with the drummed-up outrage already," Santana groaned. "This isn't about Dave and you know it!"

"Are you implying something? Because I'll have you know that I..."

Will opened his mouth to interrupt when, to his utter shock, Artie wheeled himself out of his position into the front of the room. "I don't think this is the time or place to discuss this. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Schue?"

"I..." Will stammered. "I... Yes, but..."

"Then I think we should focus our attention to getting two more members. If it's a choice between being picky and our survival as a group, I think we'd all agree which is more important, wouldn't we?" Artie didn't seem to be looking at anyone in particular, but it was Rachel in particular who seemed deflated. She crossed her arms defiantly, but said nothing. "I thought so. Welcome to New Directions, Dave." There was a light smattering of applause as a clearly embarrassed Dave took a seat - notably next to Kurt.

"Uh..." Finally Will's throat seemed to be working again. "I appreciate your stepping in, Artie, but I think I can take it from..."

"Oh, that reminds me, Mr. Schue, I'd like to talk to you after rehearsal. I have some ideas and some, uh, issues I needed to discuss with you."

Will blinked. He'd heard that Artie had been doing a lot managing the day to day activities of the Bully Whips, but this was the first time he'd ever stepped into anything Glee Club related. Will felt vaguely threatened by this for some reason.

But then, why not listen to what he had to say? He was still the director, after all; he was still the ultimate authority figure. What harm would it be to humor Artie? And if it turned out he really did have good ideas... well, as long as it benefited the Glee Club, who cared where the ideas came from? "Sure."

Artie clapped his hands. "Excellent." He returned to his position and Will resumed his own at the front of the room.

"Now, the Bully Whips has been great for increasing our exposure, but I think we need to do more to emphasize our actual artistic efforts. That's why I've taken some steps to drum up a little inspiration for all of you..."

* * *

Kurt was worried. Things just could not stand this way for long - not without some kind of explosion. It seemed like events were conspiring against him and the Glee Club at every turn. First, there was the sudden departure of Sam to Kentucky, not long after the party in which he'd talked to Rachel. There'd been a lot of tears shed during the week between his sad announcement and the day they watched the family station wagon pull away. Mercedes in particular had a rather odd reaction: the very next day, she announced the beginning of a whirlwind romance between her and football player Shane Tinsley. Not that there was anything wrong with him - he was never a part of the jock shenanigans that had made Kurt's high school experience miserable in the past - but the timing, the loud insistence on detailing their every date and moment together, so unlike Mercedes...

Then there was Quinn. Part of the problem there was that even with the Glee Club's new togetherness, they'd never been particularly close. Except for her dating his stepbrother and his one whirlwind stint with the Cheerios, they were simply from two different worlds. Kurt had quietly suggested to Finn that he try to find out what was eating at her, but he'd nervously demurred. "I'm kind of in trouble with Rach as it is, dude. Besides, I'm an ex; I'm not sure she'll _want_ to talk to me." He had a point there. Maybe Mercedes or Puck would have better luck.

Finally, there was the elephant in the room: Rachel. Besides resulting in the kind of tension and explosions that had just occurred at Glee, there was the personal pain as well. He actually _liked_ Rachel... at times. Not to mention the fact that he completely understood the reactions she was having, which made the situation all the more unbearable. But the fact remained that the choice, between everyone else in the Glee Club and Rachel, between Dave and Rachel, was no contest. He'd always known that if the Glee Club was going to stay together, going to be a powerhouse, the Rachel issue would have to be brought up sooner or later, and he was actually glad it was "sooner." All their talk did was bring a long simmering issue to the surface; it didn't create anything on its own.

Knowing that didn't make anything any easier, though.

He caught up to her after rehearsal, after Mr. Schue encouraged them to find new members and to utilize those gaudy pianos. "Rach!"

"I don't have anything to say to you," she replied in a clipped voice, increasing her strides away from him.

Kurt's temper flew from him for a moment. "Rachel Barbra Berry, you will talk to me _right now_!"

"Or what?" she demanded, whirling towards him. It would've been a highly dramatic moment had anyone else been in the parking lot to witness it. The obvious fact that she didn't care one way or another was a huge sign to Kurt of the depth of her feeling. "You're going to reject me some more? Lecture me some more?"

"We're not trying to do either of those things! We're all friends here..."

"Oh, really? How funny; I didn't think _friends_ made it a habit to conspire against other friends."

Kurt felt like pulling his hair out. "We weren't...! Fine, be angry at us. But Dave doesn't deserve it; he didn't have anything to do with this, and you know it!" A flash of regret crawled across Rachel's face. Taking it as a good sign, he pressed on. "Look, do you want for us to win Nationals this year or not?"

"I do, of course, but..."

"And are we going to try to get into NYADA together or not?"

Rachel looked reluctant. "I..."

"Yes or no, Rach?"

Something in her broke at that moment. Kurt wasn't quite sure what it was, but that it happened was plain. "Fine, yes! It just wouldn't be the same without you."

"Then we need to talk about this. Be hurt all you want; I would be too in your shoes. But you... _we_ can't keep it up forever. Not if we want to achieve our goals. You know that, right?"

Rachel heaved a sigh. "Yes... I do. So... you want to talk now?"

"No. I think we need a neutral space and an intermediary. Meet me tomorrow; I have just the thing in mind..."

**AN: Sheesh, are we not yet done with "The Purple Piano Project"? No! This'll take a while to get through all this setup, it seems...  
**

**Appropos of nothing, I was so tempted to pull a RIB and make Blaine a junior, despite him absolutely having to be in the junior prom court the previous year. I thought it'd be an interesting point of conflict for Blaine, having to spend one last year "alone" as the "only" gay student he knew of at McKinley. Sadly, sanity took back over. :) (Same reasoning for possibly making Dave a junior, and likewise abandoning.) Oh, well, I couldn't let "A World Apart" go without having the prom bit, so nothing I could do...**


	3. TPPP3: It's Quite Unusual

**AN: Hmm, a bit of a drop-off in readers from chapter one. Hope that was just bad posting timing, and hope most of you are still sticking with this! (For that matter, hoping that those following "A World Apart" do know to look here; if anyone has ideas how to remind folks that's not annoying, lemme know. :))**

"We need to talk to you." Kurt and Rachel sat in the office of Emma Pillsbury, McKinley High School counselor. Kurt never really had a lot of use for Ms. Pillsbury and her advice in the past, but she was at least (ostensibly) a professional, and she would hopefully be a good neutral party that would listen to what they both had to say. That is, unless her relationship with Mr. Schuester had progressed far enough that she would side with whoever benefited him more. Kurt hoped that wasn't the case.

"Of course!" Ms. Pillsbury said cheerfully. "About college? Or... are you two dating?" Kurt and Rachel glanced at each other in horror. "I have to say, I always thought it was inevitable. You two are about the only combination that the Glee Club hasn't tried yet. I have a pamphlet that..."

Kurt jumped in before he was forced to see whatever new abomination in folded paper form Ms. Pillsbury was about to try to foist on them. "No, it's not about either of those." Kurt sucked in a breath as he turned to Rachel. "Do you mind if I start?"

"No, go ahead," Rachel replied airily. "I'm curious as to your point of view on this anyway."

"Okay." He wasn't sure if that was a good response or not, but he pressed on regardless.

_"Talk to me about what?" Rachel asked. "And where'd everybody go?"_

_"It's about the Glee Club." Kurt sat cross-legged next to her, his white-knuckled hand gripping his ankle. "Look, Rachel... We all think you're talented."  
_

_Rachel beamed. "Of course."  
_

_"You're undeniably one of the best singers we've got."  
_

_"Kurt, I already know all this. What's your point?"  
_

_"Okay. The thing is... the Glee Club isn't supposed to be about one person. It's a _club_, not a backup group for a couple of soloists. We're supposed to rise or fall on our merits as a _team_." Kurt paused to choose his next words carefully. Despite all the discussion, all the rehearsal, he still felt like he was walking on stilts through a minefield. "You've done a lot for us already these past couple of years. Had a lot of solos, a lot of attention..."  
_

_"Kurt..." Rachel's face was set in a dangerous frown. "Just say what you want to say."  
_

_"All right. We... the rest of the club... think that you and Finn need to take a step back this year. You can still contribute, even solo... But you need to let the rest of us have a chance. We want to ask you to only try for a solo at one competition, and then just... give us a shot." There. It was said, out in the open. Now all that was left was the reaction, the consequences.  
_

_The room was still.  
_

_"_I take it," Ms. Pillsbury began delicately, "that the reaction was not good?"

"I think I reacted very reasonably under the circumstances," Rachel replied.

Ms. Pillsbury nodded. "All right, Rachel, I think it's time we heard from you. How did you react?"

_Neither of them could remember afterwards what exactly was said. Just that there was a lot of raised voices (or, at least, one raised voice), cross-talk, and even a genuine tear or two. When Rachel stormed out of the room, she accidentally ran right into the kitchen, where the rest of the Glee Club were waiting. Many uncomfortable glances passed between her and the group (except with Santana, whose gaze remained cool and defiant). She looked to Finn, her boyfriend. He opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but it quickly shut again. That was the last straw. Her face scrunching up, she ran from the house before the tears could really come._

"How do you think I reacted? I'd just discovered that the rest of the Glee Club was conspiring against me. Even my own boyfriend!"

Kurt started to say something, but Ms. Pillsbury raised a hand to stop him. "Why do you think they were conspiring against you?"

"They were talking about me behind my back! All of them! Plotting against me!"

"If they were plotting against you, don't you think they would have talked to Mr. Schuester first, instead of you?"

"All right, fine, I'm exaggerating. But you can't deny they're all against me!"

Ms. Pillsbury cocked her head. "I didn't hear anything about them being against you. They just want their chance at the spotlight." Kurt was becoming more and more astonished by the second. The counselor actually seemed to be handling this with some calm and aplomb. Maybe she wasn't quite as neutral as she could've been, but she was obviously _trying_ to approach this with professionalism and genuine concern. He began to wonder if there was something in the water...?

"But I earned those solos!"

"No one said you didn't. Not even them."

"If they wanted them, maybe they could work as hard as I do!"

"And how do you work hard?" Rachel glared, offended. "I don't know much about your life outside school. I really would like to know."

"I rehearse. Constantly. Voice lessons, dance lessons... My dads set up a _studio_ at our house, and we listen to my practice tapes constantly. And I also..."

Ms. Pillsbury nodded. "All right. If I could give my own opinion, I've watched a lot of your performances over the years, and you do seem to have more solos than anyone else."

"Like I said, I earned them! What do you want Mr. Schuester to do, not give solos to the best performer?"

Ms. Pillsbury seemed to muse over this for a minute before speaking again. "I want to ask you a question, and I want you to think carefully before you answer: what is the purpose of the Glee Club?"

Rachel blinked. "What?"

"What's the purpose of the Glee Club? If it's just to win competitions, then maybe a purely competitive approach to auditions is the way to go." She paused for another moment in thought. "But Wi- Mr. Schuester has talked a lot about the club, and I don't get the sense that's true." Ms. Pillsbury looked Rachel in the eyes. "So what do you think? What's the purpose of the Glee Club?"

"I feel like I'm being coerced into answering a trick question," Rachel huffed. "This seems like a very simple situation, and I don't understand why I'm being painted as some kind of villain..."

"I'm not trying to put you down, Rachel. I'm just trying to get an idea of why the others made this request of you, and why it's unreasonable."

"Mr. Schuester doesn't seem to think I'm unreasonable!"

Kurt suppressed a snort. Ms. Pillsbury smiled a little. "Mr. Schuester isn't a perfect person. But then again, who is?" She gave Rachel a not-unfriendly look. "You're very concerned about your future."

"Of course I am! I have a _very_ clear vision of where I'm going."

"But the way I see it, you've already made so much progress. You've gotten the lead in numerous performances, you're in dozens of clubs..."

"But it's not enough!" Kurt could almost feel something like despair, or desperation, coming off Rachel like heat, and his heart was stabbed with a feeling akin to pity. "It's _never enough_! If you're not climbing, you're falling! I have to get myself out there every day, or I'll be forgotten and..." She was cut off by gentle chuckles coming from Kurt; she whirled towards him in rage.

"No, Rach, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you... It's just that if I live to be a thousand, I will _never_ forget you. No matter who else I meet in my life, no one can EVER come close to being like you."

Rachel somehow seemed mollified by this; she smiled at Kurt for the first time in what seemed forever. "Well, thank you, Kurt."

Ms. Pillsbury glanced at the clock. "I'm sorry, I have another appointment coming up soon. We can talk again later. But Rachel... I'd like you to think about something in the meantime. I know your dreams are important to you, and I'd never ask you to give them up. But besides the purpose of the Glee Club, I'd also like you to ask yourself something else: how do you think of your fellow Glee Club members?"

Rachel frowned. "What kind of question is that?"

"One I want you to take seriously. And one more: what would you _not_ do to make your dreams come true?" With that, she rose. "I'm afraid we're out of time."

Kurt rose as well. "Thank you. You've been very..." _Surprisingly... _"Helpful." Rachel merely nodded as the two left the office. The whole painful process had gone better than he thought it would. It was obvious where Ms. Pillsbury's sympathies lay (not surprising, considering a remark she was rumored to have made to Mr. Schue about the sameness of his performance planning), but it may have also made Rachel more resistant to their plea. Maybe it was a wash. But maybe, just maybe, it was enough of a push to get her to think seriously about...

"Whoa!" Kurt skidded to a halt at the cry, his vision filled with shirt. So lost was he in thought that he'd nearly run headlong into Puck.

"Sorry about that." Kurt took a quick glance at Rachel; she was merely looking at Puck with wariness rather than outright anger and betrayal. This was _definitely_ a good sign. Maybe she really was thinking about what they'd said.

"Hey, no prob. I was just on my way to work out." He flexed one of his admittedly impressive arms. "Gotta lot to keep up, y'know."

Kurt chuckled. "Well, you have fun." As the two walked away, Kurt finally found the courage to ask what he wanted to ask. "Hey, Rach... Are we still going to the NYADA mixer together?"

She was silent for a long second before replying. "I don't know... I still feel a little... blindsided by you. By all of you."

"There was no good way to bring this up; you know that. Besides, with how exclusive NYADA is, I don't think this makes us any less bitter rivals, don't you think?" Rachel laughed weakly, another good sign. "I'll understand if you don't want to come with me, but... besides Dave, who can't come, I can't think of anyone else I'd rather share this with. You understand how important this is to me. And I understand how important it is to you."

Slowly, Rachel nodded. "Let's show them what Lima talent is made of. Together."

Kurt smiled, relieved. "I for one can't wait."

* * *

"Come on in." Emma Pillsbury rose as Puck entered. She waited patiently as he threw himself into the chair recently vacated by Rachel before sitting down herself. "I haven't seen a lot of you lately, Noah. How are your grades?"

He shrugged. "Okay. But that's not what I wanted to talk about."

"Well, I'm here to talk about whatever you want."

Puck exhaled. "Right. It's like this... I'm really worried about Quinn."

* * *

The cafeteria was still full of shouts and screeches when Kurt and Dave burst out the doors. The latter was hunched over the former as if he were a Secret Service agent shielding the President from gunfire. They stumbled out into the halls and quickly took cover in a doorway.

"Dave...! Dave! I need to breathe!"

"Sorry." The two straightened; Dave took the opportunity to pick a floret of broccoli out of his hair.

"I appreciate your efforts, Dave, but I don't think anything could've spared me from that... riot." He sighed, picking strands of spaghetti off of his vest. He was already mentally cataloging all of his vast knowledge on clothes care. _Hot_ _water... Scrub brush... Hmm, I wonder if we still have some of that Oxy-Clean..._

Dave shook his head. "God, what the hell was that, anyway? I thought the Glee Club was more popular now?"

Kurt shrugged, a very much _c'est la vie _gesture. "When your popularity starts at zero, even a 10 out of 100 is 'more.' Besides, it wasn't so much about us as it was the food fight. _That_ transcends popularity barriers."

"And that girl who started it... That's the Becky you were talking about?"

"Yep. Don't let her cherubic demeanor fool you. She's Coach Sylvester's girl through and through."

Dave shuddered, though Kurt wasn't sure if it was because of the mention of Sue Sylvester or the slab of lunch meat Dave had just found on his shoulder. "I kinda see what you meant about the food here, though," he said, flicking off the errant meat. "I definitely miss that about Dalton."

The faraway tone of Dave's voice was all that was needed to add the unsaid words "and everything else, too." Kurt put a gentle hand on his boyfriend's shoulder, resisting the urge to pull away as his skin met a greasy spot from where the lunch meat had once been. "I'm sorry, David. I realize this isn't exactly the best way to welcome you to McKinley."

"Hey, I've always wanted to see the insanity you keep telling me about that goes on around here. Be careful what you wish for, huh?"

"But you'd rather be back at Dalton, wouldn't you?"

Dave sighed. "Yeah. I would. But like I said, it's not all bad."

"I doubt I'm enough to make public school attractive for you again."

"And you'd be wrong." Dave smiled, which sent a blush up Kurt's cheeks. "Besides, it's not just you. The classes are easier, for one thing. Plus, this is kind of an adventure, you know? I'm in a whole new glee club, I get to help you found your GSA, and I'm in the Bully Whips now. I really feel like I can make a difference here."

"I sort of wish I could..." The faraway tone of Kurt's voice made Dave frown.

"What do you mean? I think you've made a lot of difference. The Bully Whips..."

"Was inspired by me. I myself had nothing to do with it. I know, I know, the GSA. But we both know it'll take a while - maybe years - for it to really take off from scratch." He shook his head. "I don't know... I guess I was hoping to make things better for the next generation of gay kids who come here. Besides, it'd really be nice to put something like that on my NYADA application..."

Dave nodded sympathetically. His eyes were wandering even as his mind was, searching for something to say to make Kurt feel better, when he saw it. "Hey..." He patted Kurt on the shoulder and pointed at a poster on the far wall. "What about...?"

Kurt blinked. "Student government? I don't know, Dave, I've never exactly been political. Or popular."

"But you _are_ really smart. You could charm the pants off of 'em no problem. You did it to me."

Kurt couldn't help but smile. "You were easy, though." Dave slapped the back of his hand to his forehead and made an exaggerated cry of pain. "But seriously, this is a public high school. Voting is still basically a popularity contest."

"Well, maybe if you had a handsome, intelligent, charming campaign manager who'd help you..."

"Oh? You know someone like that?"

"Ouch! You are on a _roll_ today, Kurt. But really, I'd be happy to help. I don't have a lot of experience, but I'm hoping that just having someone else to bounce ideas off of would be useful."

"I don't know... What would I run on?"

"What does anyone run on? I dunno... Maybe anti-bullying?"

Kurt cocked his head in thought. "But the Bully Whips already have that covered. Even if they don't, people think they do."

"Maybe something more general, then. Uh... How about inclusiveness? Treating everyone equally. That way, it'd cover sexism, racism, and whatever other -ism there is." Dave's eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers. "That's it - student body unity! Standing up for your differences and not letting anyone bring you down. You are _definitely_ good at that!"

Kurt bounced on his feet in newfound enthusiasm. "I love it! And even if I lose, it's more free advertising for the GSA!" He wrapped Dave tightly in a hug. "That does it, I'm running for class president!"

"Awesome!" The two reluctantly separated after a long minute in the embrace. "Umm... I think I felt something in your shirt pocket..."

Dave reached into the small pocket on the breast of his checked shirt, hanging unbuttoned over a white tee. He frowned, and pulled out a chicken nugget... with a bite taken out of it. He tossed it away in disgust. "Yecch."

Kurt couldn't help but giggle. He pecked Dave on the cheek, and all the nausea on the other boy's face melted away into a dazed grin. "Lunch is almost over. See you at Glee?"

"You bet. I've had enough weirdness for one day."

That afternoon, listening to the audition of a girl with the vocal pitch and tone of a drunk hyena in the throes of an epileptic seizure, Dave decided that he'd also had enough of tempting fate.

* * *

Will Schuester shook his head in wonder as he closed the proposal. It was fifteen pages long, not including the charts and schedules, professionally laid out and presented in a clear plastic binder. On the title page were the bold-faced words "The Road to Nationals: A Glee Club Proposal."

"I have to say, Artie... I'm very impressed."

The young man nodded. "Thank you."

"You've certainly been thinking a lot about this, haven't you?"

"Of course."

"I think it's pretty clear from this, and your last year in the Bully Whips, that you have a knack for direction and leadership. That's something you'll want to nurture."

"And that's my first step." Artie gestured towards the proposal in Will's hand. "So what do you think?"

"I think your plans are reasonable, your schedule doable. I'm just not sure that it's the right path to take..."

"Mr. Schue, I'm not trying to usurp New Directions from you." Will chuckled; Artie frowned. "But I think my plan strikes the right balance between being competitive and inclusive..."

"Yes, there is that. About what you said about Rachel... I don't think we should be alienating our best performer that way. It's not good for us."

Artie sighed. "Mr. Schuester, the way things were was even worse for the cohesiveness of the group. We've tried to bring this to your attention more times than I can count the past year, and frankly, you never listened to us." He held out his hand; Will silently placed the proposal in it. "With all due respect, I want you to think about something: what's the purpose of the Glee Club? Is it just to win a National title?"

Will couldn't help but think of his earlier conversation with Shannon Beiste. "If we win, the Glee Club will be stronger than ever. It could stay at McKinley for years..."

"Sure, but at any cost? You said that your old teacher said it was about 'opening ourselves up to joy'? All we're asking is for a chance, a real chance, to do that." Artie rolled backwards, away from Will's desk. "Thanks for reading the proposal, Mr. Schue. I'll see you tomorrow." Even turned away, he could feel his teacher's thoughtful look as he left.

* * *

The air rang with the screech of alarms and the roar of an incoming fire truck. Dave stared at the burning piano.

"What a shame," Kurt sighed. "'The Beat Goes On' was going so well."

Dave continued to stare, unable to even comment on Kurt's blase attitude. Finally, he found words, as crude as they were. "Holy shit. What the hell is wrong with this school?"

Kurt shrugged. "You get used to it."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

The piano collapsed with a crack of charred wood.

* * *

"Hey, guys!" Gavroche waved both arms enthusiastically as Kurt and Rachel approached. He bounded forward, giving a big hug to Kurt and Rachel a pair of cheek kisses. "I'm so glad you could make it to the mixer!"

"We wouldn't miss it for the world," Kurt replied.

"You're just in time. Everyone is here. Kids from all over the Midwest."

Kurt and Rachel glanced at each other and grinned smugly, their successful rehearsal of "Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead" still fresh in their minds. "We can't wait to meet them," Rachel said with a smile.

To both their surprise, the smile seemed to slide off Gavroche's face. "Oh."

"What's the matter?" Kurt asked.

"Oh, dear. I've seen this before."

"What?" Rachel demanded. "You're starting to worry us."

Gavroche crossed his arms and sighed. "Look, you know I love both you guys. You two are really talented and I know you'll go far..."

"Please. Get to the point." Kurt hadn't meant to be short, but his already tension-tightened nerves were being nearly humming now. Something about Gavroche's look...

The other boy rubbed his brow. "Okay, let me put it this way: you two are one of a kind in Lima, aren't you? Clearly head and shoulders above everyone else?"

Rachel and Kurt stole another glance at each other. "Yes..." the former said.

"And Kurt... You told me once that we're a lot alike, right?"

"Yes... Again, what's your point?"

"Well, what people in that position... from small towns and all that... kind of forget is that... there are other towns. Like Lima." He sighed. "Maybe you should see for yourself. Just remember that whatever you see in there, whatever happens, if you want - _really_ want - to get into NYADA, you'll find a way. You won't let anything stop you." He turned and started to go inside, taking a glance behind him as he did so.

"Do you understand...?" Rachel began.

"I'm not sure..." Kurt's stomach was starting to churn. "But I have a feeling we'll get the picture in a minute. Come on."

Approximately an hour later, the two emerged, laughing and waving to the people behind them.

"See you later, Gavroche!" Kurt called out. "Nice to meet you, Ruth!"

"You have my number, right, Canada? We'll talk sometime! Ellen, kisses!" Rachel was all smiles and grace, just like her companion. But the second the door closed, and they were alone and out of sight of everyone else, their demeanor shattered like glass. They stared wide-eyed at each other, clutching at each other's arms as they made their way across the parking lot. "Oh my God, oh my God..."

"It was us..." Kurt gasped. "Us, fifteen or twenty times over!"

"I swear, I would've bolted if it weren't for Gavroche."

"He tried to warn us..." In moments, both of them were back in Rachel's car, still shaking, trying to regain their bearings. "God, I know this is just shock talking, but... I don't feel like _myself_ anymore. All my life, I've tried to be unique. If I'm not... who am I?"

Rachel was silent, gripping the steering wheel as if preparing to wrench it out of the car. She wanted to run, literally _run_, her tail between her legs. She wanted to go home and burn every tape of her, every piece of sheet music. She wanted to scream out to the world, "I give up! Just strike me dead right now and save me the disappointment!"

But she didn't. Because all she could think of was Georgina Ross, the sophomore (no, she'd be a junior now) who was one of Rachel's regular Bully Whips escorts. She was thin, mousy, one of the invisible people who flitted through McKinley's halls, unseen and unheard except for those occasional instances where some Cheerio or other alpha bitch would mess with her just to reassert her dominance for a few minutes. But every time Rachel saw her, she was never without a smile, never without a kind word, never without quiet, genuine thanks for the Bully Whips and Rachel personally.

Georgina was also a budding poet. She was never without her notebook; from Rachel's occasional glimpses of its contents, it was full of cramped handwritten lines, at least half crossed out and streaked with erasure marks. She'd been posting them online and submitting them to competitions for, she said, years, ever since she was old enough to hold a pen. As with her school life, her poetry was also invisible. No hits, no replies that weren't canned, polite rejections. "It's okay," she'd said once when Rachel shared her sympathies on this. "I don't have to be someone now. I have all the time in the world to become someone later."

"It must be hard," Rachel had replied.

"Yeah, it is. But you're helping to make it easier. And being a poet is my dream. If I give up... what kind of dream was it to begin with?"

They never spoke of the subject again, but that brief conversation had always stuck with Rachel. It wasn't so much the words as it was the attitude: courage, determination, quiet dignity. She sometimes wondered whether she should tell Georgina the impact she'd had, but decided not to, for now; she'd just be embarrassed.

Still, whenever she felt like giving up, Georgina would float into her mind, frowning in disapproval. _If you give up... what kind of dream was it to begin with?_

_If she can keep the faith... Surely I can too?  
_

Her breathing finally back under control, she turned to Kurt. "We're going to make it," she said firmly. "We're going to NYADA together. We're going to take that whole school, that whole city, by storm. We're going to show them that we're our own people, and that we've got something they don't."

"Even if we don't know what it is yet." Kurt's voice was quiet, but it was audibly perkier than it had been just a few seconds before.

"We don't have to be someone right this instant."

"If we want it, we'll find a way."

"Amen." They did their "gay high five," giggling all the while. A few seconds later, though, Rachel's levity lessened. "Do you understand now?" she asked quietly. "Why I need the solos?"

"Rach..."

"This is our last chance to shine, Kurt, as individuals and as a team."

"Then let us do it too. Look at it this way: you shine so bright, you kind of drown the rest of us out. Don't we deserve a little bit of sun?"

"But Kurt, NYADA..."

"Isn't the end. Or the only way." Rachel looked like she wanted to slap him for blasphemy; honestly, Kurt himself felt the same way. _Dad, what did you _do _to me? _"Remember what Ms. Pillsbury asked? What do you think of us? What would you do to get ahead? Think about it. Please?"

The mood was entirely weighted down now. Rachel silently turned back towards the front of the car. She fastened her seat belt, and turned on the ignition. Sighing, Kurt fastened his own belt, and prepared for a long, silent ride home.

* * *

"Hey, dude, you got a minute?" Dave jumped a little; Puck seemed to have appeared out of thin air in just the second it took him to shut his locker.

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"How's McKinley treating you?"

Dave shrugged. "Okay, I guess. I haven't been in a public school for years, so I'm still adjusting. Could be worse."

"You should join the football team. We could use a guy like you at right guard."

"Yeah, well, I don't go for football much. Thinking of joining the hockey team once the season starts, though."

Puck laughed. "Seriously? You know what their rep is like around here, don't you? And the team's got more than its share of douches."

"I know. But I love to play. I'd miss it if I didn't." Dave looked over his now-fellow Glee Clubber. "But you didn't just want to talk about school, did you?"

Puck sighed. "Nah. I wanted to ask you a favor. A huge favor."

"What?"

"You know that Quinn and I... kinda have a history, right?"

"Yeah, I think you mentioned that once during the summer."

"And you know she's kinda... changed a lot lately, right?"

Dave nodded. "Yeah, I saw her the first day of school. Kurt said it was a huge warning sign."

"It is. We don't always really get along these days. I guess we remind each other of... uncomfortable stuff. But she's still kind of a friend, and I'm worried about her."

"Sure. You want me to help, then?"

"Yeah. I sorta need you to... keep an eye on her when I'm not around. Make sure she's not getting into too much trouble. The way she's acting... I'm scared she'll do something really stupid she'll regret later."

Dave turned this over in his mind. "Keep an eye on her? What do you mean? Follow her around?"

"If you have to. See, she doesn't know you as well as the rest of us. I'm not even sure she even noticed you're at McKinley. You'll have a lot easier time keeping track of her than anyone else in Glee."

"Geez, I don't know, Puck... It feels kinda like spying."

"You're not spying, dude. You're just making sure she doesn't hurt herself, or anyone else. Besides, man, you owe me for my awesome advice!"

Dave couldn't help but chuckle. "Uh, in case you forgot, I didn't _take_ your advice. I didn't even let you tell me what it was."

"Well, then, that's even more reason you should help me: to make up for being a fucktard and not listening to me!"

Dave laughed. "Point taken. Okay, fine. I'll see what I can do. But if she catches me, I'm selling you out in a heartbeat."

Puck grinned. "Fair enough." His face turned suddenly serious, as if he'd just taken off a mask. "Seriously, though, thanks, man. If something happened..."

He never finished the thought. But Dave shuddered at the mental images it stirred.

* * *

"Disloyal, my fucking ass!" Santana fumed as she slammed her now empty coffee cup onto the table. No one else in the Lima Bean took any notice of this, least of all her table companion. Blaine continued to casually play Metalstorm on his iPhone. "Fine, screw them! Who cares what they think?"

"Well," Blaine said, not looking up from the iPhone, "since you've been ranting about them for the past fifteen minutes, I'd say you."

"Fuck you," she snarled halfheartedly. "Come on, so I poured some stupid lighter fluid on a stupid piano. Since when was that some huge sign of disloyalty?"

"Maybe since you rejoined the Cheerios, who're being coached by a woman who's currently running for office on an anti-arts platform?"

"Whatever. Brittany is back on the Cheerios too, and no one gives _her _shit."

Blaine raised a bushy eyebrow, taking a "seriously?" look up at Santana. "Okay, there are way too many things wrong with what you just said. First of all, Brittany is actually _nice_ to people once in a while. Second, everyone's too afraid of _you_ to give her a hard time."

"As they should be," Santana replied with obvious pride.

"And third, didn't you tell me you actually _personally pledged loyalty_ to Sylvester?"

"Details," she sniffed.

Blaine finally put the iPhone down. "Okay, San, I understand why you're doing all this. I get it. You feel like you need to go back to the old you to stay sane, and I'm not going to try to argue. I know I can't convince you otherwise anyway. But for God's sake, the least you can do is not bitch and moan to me about how your own plan is fucking with your life."

Santana shrugged. "Fine. I'm just blowing off steam anyway. And it's not like it's been all bad lately. I got to see new rich girl booted out on her ass." She grinned wickedly. "I guess being inclusive and desperate can only go so far, even with Schuester."

"Not that I'm particularly interested, but what are you gonna do now?"

"Concentrate on the Cheerios, I guess. If I get a chance to go back to Glee, maybe I'll take it. I don't know if I really need it anymore."

"You need it, as long as Brittany is still there." Blaine took no pride at the hit, nor at the twitch of her mouth or the falling of her eyes that told him that it landed. She'd have to face facts sooner or later anyway. "Besides, you like the whole song and dance routine. It's like what you do on the Cheerios, except people actually pay attention to you as an individual."

Santana groaned. "Fuck, I tell you _way_ too much about myself."

"And you love me for it," Blaine replied with a shit-eating grin. Santana made a "gag me" gesture. "Seriously, San, you're an... expressive person. You gotta stand up and say something, whether it's through song or through cutting insults. You'll go back to Glee. You miss it too much."

"When the fuck did you get so wise mentor, Mr. Creepy Ass Drive By Stalker?"

Blaine quailed a little at the reminder; Santana actually felt the briefest, tiniest stab of guilt. "It's easy to solve other people's problems," he said quietly.

"Yeah." She began to reach out to him, but stopped herself. They were officially "on a break" as a couple as far as the public was concerned. So she didn't need to go through the motions of affectionate gestures anymore. Right? _Oh, what the hell. __Fuck it._ Santana once again reached out, only this time she completed the motion, laying her hand atop one of his. "Ignore me. I'm a huge fucking bitch."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"For that, you get to buy me another coffee."

"Fine, your excellency." He got up, gave her a sarcastic bow, and went to join the line. Despite all that, Santana could see that Blaine was smiling a little.

And somehow, that made her smile.

* * *

"So..." Dave began.

"So." Kurt and Dave were lounging on the Hudson-Hummel family sofa. The dinner dishes had been washed. Burt and Carole were chatting in the kitchen and making coffee. Finn was showering in preparation for a marathon TF2 run with Dave. So the two were taking the precious moment to be alone together, the TBS rerun of _The Big Bang Theory _going unwatched on the TV.

"It's been... a really interesting first week," Dave finally said.

Kurt nodded. "That's one way to put it. But plenty of good things happened too. You had your first jam with New Directions."

Dave smiled, remembering "You Can't Stop the Beat." "Yeah. That was fun. You guys are lucky I'm already used to impromptu performance from Dalton, though."

The reminder of the private school seemed to rain on them both in that moment. "Are you okay?" Kurt asked softly.

Dave nodded. "I'm fine. It's getting easier. But I'm thinking of visiting them next week. Just to see how they're doing, y'know? The Warblers should be auditioning new members, anyway, so I can spy on them if you want."

"You traitor!" Kurt cried lightheartedly. "Not a week away from them and you're already betraying your old friends?"

"Hey, you're one to talk about spying! Don't forget, if you hadn't, we wouldn't have met."

"Now that would've been a tragedy." The smile was still on Kurt's face, but his voice... that was sincere down to its last syllable.

"I agree." So was Dave's.

The two were silent for a moment, only the sound of Sheldon Cooper's voice penetrating the fog. Dave absently put an arm around Kurt's shoulder. Kurt sighed happily, reveling in the weight and the warmth. He reached up and held Dave's dangling hand. "A toast," he said.

"Uh, we don't have any drinks..." Dave began.

"Don't care. A toast: to the new McKinley GSA."

"To the GSA," Dave echoed in amusement.

"To a magical senior year."

"To a magical senior year."

"To us." Kurt's voice turned almost to a whisper with these last two words.

Dave smiled. "To us."


	4. I Am Unicorn 1: Pleased to Meet You

**AN: I realize the first "episode" might have been a little slow. That's the nature of set-up, I guess; the length might also have been a factor. I'm hoping things pick up, for everyone AND this story, starting now. At the least, some major stuff will get rolling. I think one reason for the difference between this and "A World Apart" so far is that I'm trying to have Kurt and Dave have an impact on storylines outside their own; in "A World Apart," they were relatively isolated plot-wise. Plus there's the fact that canon!Blaine (to my surprise) didn't seem to participate with major effect much in S3, and I'm trying to fix that with both Dave and Blaine here. That, of course, requires more time spent with the other characters and more setup. Please have patience with me!  
**

**And please spread the word if you're liking this so far, both to me and whoever you know who might also be interested! In the meantime, I'm gonna just press on and try to produce the best material I can, no matter who's reading! (I still hope I'm not disappointing anyone, tho'.)  
**

Kurt wiped his hands on his pants, a gesture that was so _heterosexual_ and gauche that it was a sign of his nervousness that he did so at all. The time for planning was over. The McKinley High GSA would now sink or swim on its own merits.

The room was starting to fill up nicely for the first meeting, even if he did already personally know the vast majority of people there from the Glee Club. Rachel, to her credit, was one of the first to show up, personally dragging Finn behind her. Finn had been understanding and supportive, but mildly reluctant to actually attend himself (but clearly feeling guilty about that reluctance, considering the sexualities of his stepbrother and his video game-playing friend). So his presence, however derived, served to relax Kurt slightly, as did the presence of Dave, sitting next to him.

The circle of chairs in the middle of the room was about three-quarters full: Kurt, Dave, Finn, Rachel, Mercedes, Tina, and Mike took up most of them. Artie had begged off, citing "work" of some kind, although he promised to attend the next opportunity he could. Brittany and Santana had Cheerios practice (though the former hinted at efforts to getting the rest of them, and Coach Sylvester, to join, a prospect Kurt regarded with both hope and dread). No one had yet been able to get Quinn to say more than a few words to any of them. As for Puck, not to mention GSA co-founder Blaine, Kurt had no clue where they were. There were two students present who were not Glee Club members (two more than Kurt was expecting, which he saw as a good sign): a nondescript freshman, his clothes and attitude screaming "please let me be invisible," and a sophomore Kurt vaguely recognized, with short-cropped bobbed hair and a look of expectant wariness, as if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knew how she felt.

Ms. Pillsbury, the faculty advisor, was busying herself straightening the cookies and cups of punch on the back table, and laying out pamphlets with titles such as "Gay Sex: It's Not All Interesting Positions and Leather" and "How to Reconcile Your Stereotypes and Reality Without Your Head Exploding." Kurt's fingers tapped on his leg as he glanced nervously up at the clock. It was 3:19, four minutes past their start time, and the chair to Kurt's right, reserved for his co-founder, remained conspicuously empty. He fought the urge to text Blaine yet again; the last, sent two minutes after the dismissal bell, was replied to with a curt "quit bugging me - I'll be there!" He was trying to trust Blaine and his change of heart, he really was, but now that the pressure was on, it was hard to keep anything straight, much less his determination to show Blaine that life outside the closet wasn't something to be feared.

3:20. The others were starting to get a little fidgety. Ms. Pillsbury sat herself down in a chair just outside the circle. No sense delaying any more. Kurt cleared his throat; the chatting amongst his fellow Glee Clubbers (the two "outsiders" were just sitting and staring at nothing) trailed off. "Welcome, everyone," he said brightly, "to the first meeting of the McKinley High Gay-Straight Alliance!" Finn whooped loudly and applauded. The two "outsiders" stared at him in askance. Mercedes rolled her eyes. Rachel merely patted him on the leg. He quieted down. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Kurt Hummel, one of the founders. My fellow founder is..."

Though the door to the classroom was closed, the voices outside started getting too loud for anyone to ignore. "Come on, we're late!" That was Blaine. Kurt relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief. He glanced at Dave, who nodded at him. The two briefly squeezed hands.

"Do we really have to do this?" Kurt's eyebrows rose in surprise. That was Chris Strando. Of all the people he hadn't considered...

"Yes, we do," Puck's voice replied. "Now quit your bitching." The door opened. Puck was the first one in, grinning and waving. "Sorry we're late." He was followed by Strando, then by Blaine. Kurt was fully expecting the line to end there, but it continued: Anthony Rashad, George Peyton, Azimio Adams, and Todd Jameson. The seven football players entered with varying degrees of reluctance: Puck, Rashad, and Blaine seemed the most okay with it (the last surprisingly so, to Kurt). Strando and Peyton were dragging their heels, Azimio looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, and Jameson just seemed confused, as if he were still trying to figure out how he'd been persuaded to be present.

Blaine smoothly took his seat next to Kurt; the latter smiled gratefully at the former, who just averted his eyes. The rest filled out the circle, with Azimio and Jameson being the losers in the musical chairs game. They pulled up extra chairs and sat just outside the circle, slumped with crossed arms.

"As I was saying," Kurt continued cheerily, "my fellow founder is Blaine Anderson." He nodded towards the other teenager, who did a studiously casual two finger salute to the rest of the room. "Now, the first thing I wanted to make sure you all knew is that the main purpose of this group is to provide safety, and this is where we start: right here, by having a safe place to talk about whatever you needed without fear of judgment or of it spreading outside this room. As far as we're concerned, you're all part of the 'straight' portion of the Gay-Straight Alliance unless you tell us otherwise. That said, I want to emphasize that if you _do_ feel like sharing your sexuality with the rest of us that you'll be able to do so in an atmosphere of inclusion and support." Kurt hadn't meant to glance at the football players at this moment, but he did. What he saw was some attentiveness, not to mention boredom and resentment, but no hostility. He decided that this was progress, of a sort. "Now! Why don't we all introduce ourselves to the rest of the group? I'll start."

So it went around the circle. Kurt discovered that the two "strangers" were Tony Barrett, a transplant from Cleveland, and Julia Moore, a track and field athlete. Neither disclosed their reasons for being there, and no one pressured them to. The football players were similarly reticent, though George Peyton did mutter about being "forced" to attend. The most interesting, however, was Azimio Adams. He started with the same desultory self-introduction as his teammates. But at some point, while talking about why he was there, he burst out with "Maybe the rest of y'all can tell me why my..." He quickly stopped himself, and returned to his disinterested slump, but it was too late. Kurt was already intrigued. He had no idea what Azimio was about to say (though he had a feeling it had little to do with Azimio himself - a friend or relative, maybe?), but whatever it was, it was relevant, and interesting.

The rest of the meeting was casual, meant to ease everyone into the heavier activities. Perhaps the most significant part was when Todd Jameson asked Dave, with clear disbelief, "Dude, _you're_ gay?" Finn had bristled visibly, but Rachel stopped him with the lightest of touches. Dave patiently explained about the broad range of people and types (not stereotypes) that could be gay. Finn nodded throughout, as if he'd heard it before. When Dave was done, Jameson seemed to understand, a new light in his eyes, as if he was looking at Dave and Kurt in a completely new way. Social progress, in a microcosm, and Kurt had been witness to all of it. It was an exhilarating feeling.

After the official business was done, with some discussion of future plans and activities, and the cookies were eaten and punch drunk, it was just Kurt and Blaine, cleaning up. Finn and Dave had offered to help, but Kurt cheerfully sent them on their way. "I'm sure we'll be fine." And indeed they were, though Blaine was far from his usual self, rearranging chairs and tossing trash into a garbage bag in complete silence. The afternoon had been a terrific success; Kurt was on too much of a high to let this slide. "Penny for your thoughts," he said.

Blaine started, as if he'd forgotten Kurt was there. After a moment, he shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Is something bothering you?"

"I said it's nothing!" he snapped. "Christ, didn't you say at the meeting there'd be no pressure?"

Kurt held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay." Blaine sneered (a sight that sent an involuntary shudder through Kurt; it was much too familiar) and returned to his work. "Only..." The other teenager's head snapped back up again. "I also said that this was a place where you could speak without fear. Just so you remember."

Blaine stared with an unreadable look on his face. "Yeah. I remember."

"So... how did you get your teammates to come?"

"Well, Puck and I cornered them and..." He stopped himself, shaking his head with a small smile. "Actually, I'm not sure you want to know."

Kurt couldn't help but laugh. "Maybe I don't." They continued their work in another bout of silence. "Are you okay? Having your friends at these meetings, I mean."

Blaine shrugged. "I guess. I kind of implied that I was being forced to, and Puckerman didn't contradict me, but I don't know how much they're buying it."

"Why do you worry?" Kurt returned Blaine's shrug at his stare. "It's an honest question. So what if you're showing your friends you actually have a conscience? Is it so bad, treating others with respect?"

"You don't get it."

"No, I don't. That's why I'm asking."

"Yeah, well, I'm popular, you know? I actually have something to lose. It's easy for you to sit in judgment, considering you've never been popular." Blaine winced. "Shit, I got my mouth ahead of my brain again, didn't I? Sorry about that."

Kurt frowned. "Hurtful, but still a reasonable point. I can't pretend I haven't wanted what you have. I can't imagine what it'd be like to have it, then lose it all. At the same time... the pressure to keep up appearances must be enormous."

"You have no idea," Blaine whispered.

"Well, don't worry; I won't pressure you anymore. I meant what I said: take whatever time you need to be comfortable with yourself."

"Thanks."

"But... I really do think you'd be happier if you could let yourself be who you really are."

Blaine almost said something stupid, like "What, like you? Are _you _happy?" But he didn't; for one, he had vague memories of having said something like that before, and it didn't take then. For another, he was actually starting to regard Kurt as a friend of sorts, and that wasn't the kind of thing he said to friends. For another... Wait, there wasn't another. Was there? Regardless, he simply nodded. Better to stay quiet.

Story of Blaine's life, that was.

* * *

If one wanted to survive at McKinley High School, there were certain things one had to learn. The fact that a Slushie cup was bad news, for example (although fear of frozen drinks had diminished significantly since the Bully Whips were founded). What day was the best for cafeteria food (Thursday, when it was a guarantee that either burgers or spaghetti would be served, both of which were at least tolerable). When to avoid Coach Sylvester's general vicinity (almost any time, though most especially right before any major competition).

One of the more important new rules of the past few years was when to stay out of Santana Lopez's way. This was definitely one of those times. Then again, one look at her intense, stormy face was enough to send even the most naive, friendly freshman scrambling for cover. If she'd been thinking, she might've been at least mildly concerned at how this would affect the reputation of her Bully Whips. At the moment, though, she couldn't have given less of a shit. The reason for her bad mood was crowding out everything else.

It wasn't that she was dwelling on her expulsion from the Glee Club, per se, nor was it the uncertain state of her relationship with Brittany, nor was it her rapidly slipping status as Bully Whips founder in favor of the day-to-day control Artie wielded. (Not that these particularly helped.)

It was that Blaine Anderson was right about her.

Blaine Anderson was _right_. How fucking dare he be right!

She missed the fucking Glee Club. That's all there was to it. Not that she particularly missed the drama and the incompetence and Rachel fucking Berry. But the performing, the spotlight, the music... Those she missed. It was freeing, being able to belt out her favorite tune, being an individual instead of one of a horde of near-identical trained cheerleaders, even if only for a moment.

That meant that eventually, she'd crack. She'd renege on her pledge to Coach Sylvester (never mind how suicidal that would be, or the ridiculousness of her "swearing loyalty" to high school teachers; but then, there was very little that was sane where Sylvester was concerned) and go crawling back to fucking Schuester. She knew this for a stone cold fact.

This further infuriated her.

The worst part of it was that inevitability. It was like she didn't have any choice, like she was just an observer in her own life. That was not the Santana Lopez way. Santana Lopez did what she wanted, when she wanted, and if life didn't like that, she grabbed it by the balls and twisted until it screamed like a little girl.

No, that wasn't entirely true. If it were, she and Brittany would be skipping down the halls hand in hand, sharing sloppy kisses no matter who was staring.

So there it was. All she could do was preserve what little pride she had left before she gave in. If only there was another option, _any_ other option...

"Oh!" The exclamation snapped her out of her bitter reverie. She suddenly realized that she was mere inches from crashing into a woman who had just emerged from one of the doors nearby - Figgins' office. "Sorry about that," the woman said.

Santana nodded in a "no harm, no foul" way, and was about to leave when her synapses finally fired, and she made the connection. "Ms. Corcoran, right?"

Shelby Corcoran nodded. "S...? Santana, I think it was? I'm afraid I didn't really bother learning your names."

Santana shrugged. "No, it's fair." She frowned. "What are you doing here? I thought I'd heard you moved to New York."

"I did. But I was lured back, to start a second Glee Club here."

A feline smile came over Santana's face then, an expression so full of satisfaction and malice that even Shelby Corcoran, Vocal Adrenaline coach and scourge of the show choir world, paled a little. "Really? Please, Ms. Corcoran, tell me more..."

* * *

Puck couldn't help himself. Every time he strode down the halls of McKinley in his suit and sunglasses, he felt goddamn _badass_ - even more than usual. Hell, even though he'd busted Cheerios several times in the past months, he was _still_ getting more attention from them than before. And why not? He looked goddamn good, and he knew it. The look was just the right mix of tough and suave that really got girls going. He could even swear that he caught Karofsky giving him a look (one of those quick, wide-eyed, startled stares, like "shit, when the hell did HE get so hot?") in the halls. Considering how bad the dude had it for Kurt, _that_ was an accomplishment, one to be damn proud of.

As he made his way down his patrol route, his eye caught the Skanks, hanging around and watching the passersby. Quinn was, of course, among them; his heart pounded. She'd become more and more withdrawn recently - not that she had any reason to talk to him, even before. But ever since New York... Puck winced, shaking his head. _Get your mind back in the game, man! Look what's going down right in front of you! _

In his tenure as a Bully Whip, Puck's instincts about trouble, already heightened by personal experience, had sharpened considerably. Case in point: the way the Skanks were watching a young freshman as she made her way towards the girl's bathroom. As soon as she disappeared inside, all four began to approach it themselves. Bad news. He had to stop it before it started. (Not that he had any shame about entering a girl's bathroom. There was that one time his sophomore year, for example, where he did so, and no one seemed to mind... But that was a long time ago, and a long story to boot.)

He went right up to the four Skanks, his patented grin plastered onto his face. "Hey, ladies," he said smoothly, lowering his shades just enough to peer at the girls over them. Not so coincidentally, he stood right between them and the bathroom door. "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Out of our way, Puckerman," one of them (Ronnie, he thought her name was) snarled. "We gotta go."

"Just a sec, just a sec. Official Bully Whips business, y'know."

"Us? Bullies?" The Mack snorted. "We're as pure as the fucking driven snow."

"Yeah," Sheila chimed in. "Isn't Quinn your girl? You think she's gonna cause any trouble?"

Puck tensed at the mention of their history; Quinn seemed to react in much the same way. He recovered first. "This won't take long. I mean, we all know you're huge badasses..."

"Damn straight," The Mack sneered.

"So it's my job to make sure you aren't, y'know, abusing the privilege."

Sheila turned to Quinn. "You actually used to be one of these losers?"

Quinn snapped the gum in her mouth. "Why do you think I'm with you now?"

The door behind Puck opened; the freshman emerged and went on her way. The Skanks watched her vanish into the crowds down the hall, and all turned to Puck with murderous glares. Puck was not moved; he'd seen worse on much meaner faces. "Class is starting soon," he said casually. "You all might want to head on towards 'em."

"Whatever." With that, The Mack turned on her heel and stalked down the hall. Ronnie and Sheila started following. Quinn didn't move, standing stock still in her stare at Puck. The Mack somehow seemed to sense the separation of the group; she turned back. "Hey! You coming?"

"In a minute. I have to give Mr. Whip here a piece of my mind." The Mack nodded, and she and the other two girls were soon gone. The second they were out of sight, Quinn turned round on Puck. "You've already ruined my life once," she hissed. "Now you want to do it again?"

Puck blinked, startled at the pure malice on her face, in her voice. "Shit, Quinn, what the hell...?"

"Oh, don't act so concerned. None of you gave a damn about me all summer..."

"That's not true! We tried to help! We..."

"Save it!" Quinn snapped. "I don't want to hear it anymore."

If Puck had hair of any substance, he would've been pulling at it. "What's wrong with you? Ever since New York, you've been acting crazy! This isn't you!"

"And how the hell would you know who I really am? Maybe I've always been this way, and just didn't want anyone to know."

"Come on, Quinn, we're your friends..."

"Not anymore," she replied coldly. "I obviously can't trust you." _With_ _what? _Puck wondered. But before he could ask, she continued. "I don't want anything more to do with you, or the rest of the Glee Club. And when I'm happy, and you want back in... You'll only have yourself to blame." She stormed off, leaving Puck staring after her. He still had little idea of what she was talking about, but he knew it couldn't be good...

"Puckerman." The cold voice behind him froze his blood just by the hearing. He slowly turned to see Coach Sylvester glaring at him, arms crossed. "What have you been doing to Quinn Fabray?"

"Nothing!" he gasped, panic squeezing at his chest. He was a badass, yes, but he wasn't stupid; Coach Sylvester was fucking _scary_. "Wait... I thought she wasn't a Cheerio anymore?"

"Once a Cheerio, always a Cheerio. I have the contracts signed in blood to prove it."

"I'm only trying to help her, I swear. But it's hard getting her to listen..."

"You think that's hard? Try climbing the Sears Tower with a pair of sporks. _That's_ hard." Sylvester regarded him for a moment; Puck fought the urge to run. He knew it would only make it worse. "I have to admit, you Glee Club misfits have actually been making yourselves useful with this Bully Whips business. You're actually doing something for this school other than insulting our eardrums. So here's a tip: find out what she wants. No matter how crazy she might seem to be - or actually is - she has an agenda. She's a lot like me in that regard."

"And once I find out what it is...?"

Sylvester shrugged. "Depends what it is. Help her, stop her, crush her. Whatever. Figure it out yourself. If you care at all about her, you'll know." With that, she turned on her heel and walked away.

It wasn't until Puck's pulse had returned to reasonable levels did he realize that Sue Sylvester had actually given him halfway useful advice.

* * *

Dave climbed out of his car. Staring up at the storied stone buildings looming over him, his heart was stabbed with a sense of nostalgia and regret. He felt a little bad for skipping out on his last class to drive back to Westerville, but he was ahead in his math classes anyway, and... he needed this trip.

He felt a little self-conscious as he stepped into the bustle of Dalton Academy; it was the first time in a long while he'd trod these halls without his uniform. Ironic, considering how much he hated the thing when he first arrived. _But you don't always appreciate what you have until it's gone, do you?_

It wasn't that he hated McKinley, or minded being with Kurt (quite the opposite, in fact); it was just that Dalton had done so much for him, had been his home for so long, it was unreasonable to expect him to have completely let it go after such a short time. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Dave had no idea what he looked like when he saw David Thompson coming towards him in the hall, but he knew how he felt: joy. Wholeness. The two young men embraced.

"How the hell are you doing, man?" David whooped as they separated, slapping Dave on the back.

"Uh, you sorta know; we text like every day."

"Yeah. So? It's good to see you, Dave."

"Same here." He further brightened as more familiar faces came into view. "Callie! What're you doing here?"

"Hey, Dave." David's girlfriend gave him a quick hug and peck on the cheek. "Just visiting my boo." David blushed. "Oh! Someone I want you to meet." She waved over a tall young man who'd been leaning against a nearby wall. He and Callie definitely shared a family resemblance: similar noses and cheekbones. His eyes were cast at the floor, and his shoulders hunched forward, as if trying to crumple himself into disappearance. "Carl, this is Dave Karofsky. Dave, this is my twin brother Carl. He might come to Dalton next year, so I'm giving him the grand tour."

"Hi." His voice was almost inaudible above the rumble of Dalton daily life around them.

Dave decided not to press. "Hi." He turned back to David. "So what's it like, being the senior member of the council?"

David rolled his eyes. "God, I have no idea how Wes did it. Thad and Jerry help keep the others in line, but it's tough. I wish..." He stopped himself abruptly; Dave knew exactly what he was about to say: _I wish you were still here, so you could join the council and help me out._ He tried hard not to let the thought linger in his mind as David recovered. "Hey, we're starting this year's auditions in a few minutes. Why don't you sit in as guest judge? I'd love to hear your opinions on this new crop."

"I'd really like that." He followed the others to the choir room - not that he couldn't have found his way there with a blindfold. The second he stepped inside, a roar rose from many of the Warblers gathered therein. He was immediately descended upon, blazers clustering around him like a plague of locusts, his back becoming sore from all the pats and his hand being yanked every which way for shakes. It took multiple gavel pounds, and a roar of a volume Dave hadn't thought David capable of, to finally bring the room to order.

Dave leaned against the wall near the council table as hopeful after hopeful presented their talents to the group. They ran the gamut from superb to okay (none were any worse than that; but then, Dave supposed, this wasn't _American Idol_, so no one who was truly bad would probably audition, Sugar Motta notwithstanding). Only two had been given the thumbs-up so far. Occasionally, one of the council members would cock his head back and shoot a questioning look towards him; he shrugged every time, not wanting to prejudice the proceedings as a non-Warbler (though even the thought of that status still hurt a little), and not feeling strongly enough about any auditionee so far to really stick his neck out.

That changed with candidate number six. He was tall and lanky, with swept-up blonde hair. He took his position with confidence and poise, wearing a lazy, easygoing grin, as if he knew he already had it. "Gentlemen of the council," he said, nodding towards them. "My name's Sebastian Smythe. I won't waste any more of your time or mine in introductions; I know what you're here for." Unlike the others, he took barely half a second to center himself before he began to sing.

_Please allow me to introduce myself,  
__I'm a man of wealth and taste..._

Here he gave a cunning little bow towards the council.

_Been around for a long long year..._  
_Stolen many a man's soul and faith..._

His voice was smooth and rich, his eyes sparkling as he regarded his audience. Dave mentally nodded; this guy was pretty good. Not Jagger, of course, but he definitely had pipes. And moves. Perhaps that's what made him so good: an obvious aura of confidence bordering on arrogance.

_Hope you guessed my name...  
But what's troubling you is the nature of my game..._

Also unlike many of the other auditioners, who stood ramrod straight in their original spot out of sheer nervousness, Sebastian was moving, rocking along with his own voice. He began working the room like a seasoned pro, making eye contact and whirling with gestures as loud and expressive as his voice.

_I watched with glee while your kings and queens  
Fought for ten decades for the gods they made..._

Dave barely noticed his foot tapping along with Sebastian's beat. The rest of the room was falling under some kind of spell as well; several of the veteran Warblers were supplying the "woo woo"s at the right moments. The council members were looking at each other and nodding.

_I'm a man of wealth and taste..._  
_And I laid traps for troubadours_  
_Who get killed before they reached Bombay..._

Dave mused for a moment on whether to offer an opinion on this guy, as David would doubtlessly request. After all, the Warblers were rivals now. Yet they were also still friends. Besides, any attempt to claim that Sebastian was _not_ good would probably be too transparent.

_So if you meet me, have some courtesy,  
Have some sympathy and some taste...  
Use all your well learned politics  
Or I'll lay your soul to waste..._

As the song drew to a close, the gathered Warblers broke out into applause, except for the council; they had an aura of impartiality to maintain, after all. Dave, however, had no such need; he joined in the general applause. As expected, David and the others took a quick glance at him. What else could he do? He gave them a quick nod. With that, David stood. "Welcome to the Dalton Academy Warblers, Junior Warbler Smythe." A crack of the gavel, and the room filled with cheers._  
_

By the time the auditions ended, three other members had been admitted, but none made the raw impression Sebastian had. When the meeting was adjourned, Dave lingered to say hello to various former fellows. He was almost slipping into a pattern (hello, handshake, chat about school, "oh, man, we miss you, dude," "I'll catch you on Facebook," repeat) when a much less familiar face appeared before him.

"Hey," Sebastian said with a grin. "I saw you give me the thumbs-up. Thanks."

Dave chuckled. "Nah, you earned it yourself. You were good."

"Thanks." He looked Dave up and down with a gleam in his eye that made him mildly uncomfortable. "I have to say, when they were telling me about you, I never thought you'd be this hot."

Dave tried to focus. "'They'?"

"The rest of the Warblers. God, they could _not_ stop talking about you. How cool of a guy you were, how good your voice is, and on and on. Just about the only thing they didn't tell me was how adorable you are."

Dave flushed. He knew he had to stop this in its tracks right now. "I'm flattered, really, but I have to tell you, I have a boyfriend."

Sebastian shrugged, grinning. "Hey, he can join in too if he's cute."

Dave laughed. "I don't think he'd be interested. I'm sorry, I'm off-limits. I'm kinda the old-fashioned type."

"Hey, I understand. To be honest, you're not my usual type anyway. I just had to meet the famous Dave Karofsky. And maybe get some tips on how to best fit in with the group. Y'know, Warbler to Warbler?"

"Sure, no problem. I know how hard it can be to adjust to a new situation." Dave gave Sebastian a look. "You're not a freshman, are you?"

The other teenager laughed. "God, no. Transfer. I was living in Paris up until last month."

"Oh, well, welcome back to the States. Hey, I don't know if you know this, but Dalton has a GSA. They could always use new members."

"Why don't we talk about it over coffee? I haven't been around for that long, but I know that place on Seventh is pretty popular..."

Dave shook his head. "Sorry, but I have to head back to Lima soon. I have plans with my boyfriend."

"Sometime soon, then. Maybe I can come down to Lima." Sebastian paused. "I have to say, though, I'm a little surprised that you'd leave Dalton and the Warblers, considering how much they seem to love you here."

"It wasn't my choice, believe me. But I'm making the best of it. You should consider yourself lucky; the council isn't exactly easy to impress."

Sebastian smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. "I'll keep that in mind. Here, let me give you my phone number."

"Sure thing." Dave wasn't exactly sure he should be making new friends at Dalton; he was missing the ones he had already to begin with. But what the hell. If nothing else, getting another warm body into the GSA would be beneficial in the long run. What would be the harm?

* * *

Sebastian had been telling the truth: he definitely had a type, and Dave Karofsky didn't exactly fit into it, with a few extra pounds and more body hair. Still, unlike some of the drunken bears who'd occasionally give him a leer at bars, Dave carried both fairly well, in his opinion.

Not even that would've been enough normally (after all, someone like him could afford to be a little picky), if it hadn't been for the other Warblers prattling on and on about this guy. Sebastian was fairly sure that Dave would've been embarrassed at all of this, if he was anything like they were saying, but still... It made him intriguing, in a weird sort of way.

And when they finally met... From that moment, Sebastian was hooked. Dave was so painfully, almost naively, earnest and so obviously and pathetically in love with this boyfriend of his that Sebastian knew: this had the makings to be his greatest triumph yet.

To be frank, he'd become bored. Random pick-ups at bars had become more routine than anything. If he decided he wanted a guy, he got him, usually with no more than perfunctory effort. He'd even started trying to pick guys up after only two drinks, but even sobriety failed to add more than maybe five minutes tops to the time between "hello" and "oh God yes."

Dave Karofsky, though... He was different. He would require an entirely different approach than his usual; it would have to be much more subtle, much more patient. Usually, he wouldn't have that sort of patience, but again, boredom - being in small town Ohio didn't help matters in that regard. Besides, he could cool his heels with his usual one night stands in the meantime.

He also sensed he'd have to moderate his language and hold his tongue a lot more, especially around Dave's friends. Now _that_ would be difficult - he took a certain pride in his... honesty. But he felt, down to his very bones, that this little pet project was worth it. Getting this man into his bed would be the ultimate challenge, and Sebastian was practically salivating, already thinking of short term ideas and long term plans. Succeeding would mean being smart, thinking quickly on his feet, pushing his charm and skills at manipulation to their limits. He hadn't felt this excited in ages.

After all, with his sickening loyalty and obvious lack of carnal attraction towards Sebastian, Dave would not give of himself willingly - not to begin with. What Sebastian couldn't have, he found himself (though he admitted it could be a somewhat childish impulse) wanting.

And what Sebastian Smythe wanted, Sebastian Smythe got.

Period.


	5. I Am Unicorn 2: Casting Call

Kurt cast a death glare towards his boyfriend. _"Don't."_

"Don't what?" Dave asked innocently, his eyes flickering back towards the posters on the wall. It was like a car wreck; he just couldn't look away...

"Make any smart comments. I know you're at least thinking them, Karofsky." He was, but he wasn't about to tell Kurt that. "I asked her to emphasize my commitment to equality," Kurt griped, waving a hand at the posters. "I didn't think she'd do it with unicorns and glitter and... the rest of it. It's stereotyped even for me!"

"Oh, I dunno... I think it gets across your, uh, unique sensibilities."

Kurt elbowed Dave in the side. "Quiet, you." He looked back at the wall and sighed. "I have orders for you."

"Anything." It was said so quietly that Kurt knew what kind of thought and emotion was behind it. But he'd reward Dave for that later; this was politics, and thus all business.

"I want you to fire Brittany."

"What? Why don't you do it? You're the candidate."

"And you're my campaign manager. Besides, every great leader needs to know how to delegate."

"I don't want to. Santana is going to yell at me. She scares me." Dave made an exaggeratedly childish pout.

"I've known her for a lot longer than you. Trust me: knowing her just scares you more." Kurt put on the most cloyingly sweet smile he could manage. "I'll make it worth your while," he said in a singsong voice.

Dave sighed. "Okay, I'll talk to her. But you owe me. Huge."

"Excellent! At least _something_ is going right."

"Yeah. I saw those poll results. Well, it's still early; the voters don't know you yet."

"Or they know too much. Or the wrong things. That's the problem. That's why I was hoping the posters would..." He waved again at the wall, a wild gesture that almost hit a poor passing freshman in the face. "Oops, sorry. Anyway, I'm starting to think your Web video idea was a good one."

Dave shrugged. "If Jacob ben Israel is going to be filming you anyway, might as well try to steer it towards something good, right? I'll make sure he doesn't try anything funny."

Kurt snickered. "Just don't leave any bruises, okay? The last thing my campaign needs is a major scandal."

"Me? I am a gentleman and a pacifist." Dave arched an eyebrow and bent a pinkie, as if holding an imaginary fine china teacup.

"Uh huh. A gentleman and a pacifist who slams people in the face with hockey sticks."

"Only the ones I like."

It took a while for Kurt's laughter to die down; when it did, it tapered off with a sigh. "Whatever happens, I'll be glad when the campaign is over. Between it, school, the GSA, and booty camp, I'm falling asleep the second my head hits the pillow."

"Are you okay? I mean, you don't have to do _everything_ to get into NYADA. I don't want you to push yourself too hard..."

Kurt's hand brushed Dave's tricep. "You're sweet, but I'm fine. The pace will be even worse once I get into the professional world, so I have to learn how to handle it. Besides, I'm actually kind of having fun with all of it. Especially dance."

"Yeah, I think I'm kinda getting the hang of it. Mike Chang's really good, isn't he?"

"He is. It'll be good practice for the musical too."

Dave nodded. "You're trying out too, aren't you?"

"But of course. It'd be a nice feather in my cap for NYADA." Kurt needed only a glance at Dave's face to divine his thoughts; of course, in this case, he'd seen a bit of it in his father too when he mentioned his plans to him. "Oh, don't worry; I can handle the musical on top of everything else. I'm nothing if not energetic. And not in that way, Dave Karofsky!" With obvious effort, Dave took the leering/dreamy look off his face. "I'm impressed so far from what I've heard of Artie's efforts; being in charge of the Bully Whips seems to have done him a world of good."

"Well, I've got a sort of insider look, and I can tell you you're right. Even his folks have noticed. He's definitely learned a lot from the Bully Whips, if what they said is true."

"I don't doubt that it is. I'm sure _West Side Story_ will be much better for his involvement in it, and vice versa. So, what parts are you auditioning for besides Tony?"

"Well, I wasn't going to audition for Tony, but..."

"What? Why not? You'd be great!"

"I suppose. But I don't really want a leading role, y'know? Too much pressure."

"I hope you're not backsliding, Dave. You and I both know that you'd be a top contender if you auditioned." Kurt stared into Dave's face with a penetrating gaze that seemed to make the larger boy shrink a little. "That's it, isn't it?" Kurt said softly, with a touch of wonder. "That's the point. You're trying to get out of my way."

"Kurt..." _How the hell does he read my mind like that? Am I _that_ obvious?_ Dave hoped not. He had WAY too many thoughts he didn't want Kurt to know about, for a wide variety of reasons.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

Dave's shoulders heaved. "You say that like it's a bad thing. I want you to get into NYADA, and I don't want to stand in your way. I'm not planning to major in performing arts, so getting a lead doesn't matter to me. It matters to you, and that's all I care about."

Kurt rubbed his forehead. "I'd ask you if you actually wanted the role, but you'd lie to me if you did, wouldn't you?"

"Kurt..." Dave began again.

"No, Dave, please, listen to me. I appreciate what you're trying to do. And in a sense, you're right; my dreams and my future are extremely important to me, and I'm not going to let others stand in my way. But at the same time, I like you. More importantly, I respect you, too much to let you take a subordinate position in this relationship."

"But I don't mind..."

"That's not the point. I've told you, I want us to be equals. I don't want you to put aside your needs and desires in favor of mine. It's not healthy, and it's not right." Kurt took Dave's hands. "I want you to promise me that you'll audition for whatever role you want, and that you'll do your best no matter what you decide."

"I..."

"_Promise_ me, Dave. This is important to me. You're important to me. That's why I'm asking this of you." He gave Dave a look that was intense, sincere. "Promise?"

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Dave heaved a sigh. "Okay, I promise. But how do I know you're not just doing what you said I am?"

Kurt shrugged. "You don't. But I hope you'll believe me when I tell you I don't mind. With everything else I'm putting on my resume - and everything I'm hoping to put in the future - I don't absolutely require a lead. Especially since I'm starting to gain some hope that I might actually be able to get a Glee solo sometime this year."

"Oh, yeah, how're things with Rachel? I can't really tell what's going on with her."

"Once you get to know her better, you'll find her as obvious as we do. She wears her heart on her sleeve. Anyway, she's still upset, but I think I see a chink in her armor. Who knows - she might actually be thinking about things."

"What about Finn? Does he mind all this?"

"I don't think he cares a lot. I mean, he loves the attention that comes with solos, and he loves what it means, but he just takes what Mr. Schue gives him. Thank God for that - it was hard enough talking with Rachel. But having to convince my own stepbrother..."

"Ehh, he's cool. I've been talking to him myself when we play TF2. Hell, we might form an online group with a few of my friends from Dalton."

Kurt started to nod absently, but the very mention of Dalton brought him up short. "Speaking of which... you all right?"

Dave nodded. "Yeah. I think so. I'm starting to get used to it, 'specially since I talk with some of the guys pretty regularly. Oh, speaking of which, I met this new Warbler who seems okay."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. He's gay too, and he just joined the Dalton GSA. Oh, and he's a pretty good singer. We've been talking online lately. He said he might come down to see Lima. You should meet him; he's a cool guy."

"I'd love to. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine." _Besides_, Kurt thought, _anyone who can take Dave's mind off missing Dalton can't be all bad..._

* * *

The Glee Club meeting hadn't yet started, but already the room was abuzz. Artie had arrived saying, with confidence, that he had "fruitful" discussions with Mr. Schue. Between that, the musical, and the upcoming competition season, there was a charge to the air as a half dozen small discussions shot across the room.

With so much excitement, the Glee Club could be excused for not noticing the oddity. Rachel Berry was an island of calm in the middle of the blabbering crowd. No, perhaps "calm" was not the right word; there was more ice to her mood than serenity. Her arms were folded, and she was staring off into space with a glare. Occasionally, she'd turn to Finn; each time, he'd be chattering happily with Puck or Dave about various matters (not including the musical; he'd decided on his own long ago that his dance moves weren't quite up to snuff, much to Artie's relief). Thus, each time, she returned to her stewing.

By the time Mr. Schuester arrived, one could practically see the black cloud hanging over Rachel's head, if one cared to look. But the teacher's arrival took away all the attention. Even Rachel herself straightened in her seat in anticipation.

"Good afternoon, everyone! Now, before we get to the assignment, I have something to say." Will swallowed, trying very hard to not focus his gaze on Rachel or Finn. "I've been told that there's been some... dissatisfaction with the way I've been selecting soloists." Someone in the group cleared his or her throat; Will didn't see who it was. "Now, I've never wanted to imply that any of you aren't talented enough to have solos, or that I think less of you compared to... others. I've been having, er, discussions with some of you, in private, to get your opinions." Most had been with a very passionate Artie; Will had been tempted several times to just shut him down, but sheer persistence had paid off. His discussions had also included Rachel; it so happened that her appointment coincided with one of her darker moods. Hearing her rant the way she did honestly shocked Will; he knew very well about that side of her - hell, that drive was one of the things that made her such a great performer with such limitless potential. But seeing all her filters off that way - all the arrogance and entitlement (and yes, the desperation and fear, which surprised him even more) - was... eye opening, to say the least.

"They've convinced me - you've convinced me - that I need to take a different tack with major performances," he continued. "Not that I'll stop assigning solos by merit; that won't change. But... we're a team. I've never thought of any of you as anything else, even when it seemed like most of you were backup for a few individuals. I'm sorry if it looked otherwise." Will took a deep breath. "Starting with Sectionals, we're going to have fewer dedicated solos. The ones we do have will be shorter, and will be assigned with several factors besides talent level in mind: seniority, number of past solos, competition level, and others." There was a stirring in the room. Yes, some of those factors still favored Rachel, but it was still much more than any of them had been expecting. "I'm going to give first crack to those of you who want a shot who haven't had one in the past. We - as a group - will also be discussing song selection starting tomorrow. Now I know you probably have a lot of questions, but I can answer them later. Right now, we need to get started on our assignment. Mike, I believe you wanted to be first...?"

Kurt was practically giddy with excitement. He reached over and squeezed Dave's hand, beaming with joy. Only halfway through Mike's performance did he happen to glance in Rachel's direction. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was hanging open, as if she were still in shock...

* * *

"Blaine!"

Blaine Anderson had come to dread the sound of Santana calling his name. It usually heralded nothing good. Steeling himself, he turned to see her and Brittany coming down the hall towards him.

"Santana. Brittany." He nodded towards the other girl. "What's up?"

"We have a job for you."

"A job," Blaine repeated. He glanced at Brittany; the blonde was almost jumping up and down, smiling in gleeful anticipation. There was _definitely_ something up. "And I'm going to be agreeing to this job, aren't I?"

"If you're smart, and you enjoy having intact limbs," Santana replied sweetly. "Brittany, having severed herself from an ungrateful Tinkerbell wannabe, has decided to run for class president." Brittany nodded so much Blaine was surprised she didn't give herself whiplash.

"Really. Well, good luck." He mentally crossed his fingers.

But his hopes were to be for naught. "Oh, no," Santana said with a smile. "You are part of this, my dear boyfriend. You are going to be her speechwriter."

_Of course_. "You do know I have no experience with that kind of thing, right?"

"Not formally. But Puck told me about how you helped him get the rest of the football team back at last year's championship. And you're popular; you have a pulse on what people want to hear around here."

"It'll be fun!" Brittany squealed. "I'd love to have two unicorns working on my campaign!"

Blaine blinked at the apparent non sequitur (though it didn't faze him; she was well-known for such things), but Santana's jaw dropped. "Britt... I didn't tell you... that..."

Brittany responded with a blank look (something that she was very good at, in Blaine's opinion). "You mean he isn't? But I saw the way he..."

"Never mind," Santana hurriedly cut in, leaving Blaine even more confused. "We'll talk about that later. Right now, we get Anderson here on board. You in?"

Blaine sighed. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"Oh, you do. It's just that the wrong one leads to _very_ bad things."

"I'm not even gonna ask. Fine, I'm in." Santana smiled, and Brittany jumped for joy. "Britt, we should meet sometime soon to discuss your platform."

Brittany nodded. "It's Apple! Artie told me to get a Mac. He said that it was easier to use, and..."

Blaine groaned. For a moment, he froze, afraid that Santana had heard, but no; she was just stupidly staring at Brittany as if she were the only thing in the world worth looking at. _Fuck, this is going to be a long campaign..._

* * *

"Hey!" Dave nearly jumped at the shout. He turned to see Puck striding down the hall towards him. "You seen Quinn?"

"No, not lately. You looking for her?"

"Dude! I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on her!"

"I didn't think you meant _stalking_ her! And I have a life, you know!"

Puck shook his head and sighed. "Fine. Come with me." Without even waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and walked back the way he came. Dave stared after him for a moment, wondering whether to follow. He was answered when Puck stopped and looked behind him with a "well?" glare. Dave sighed and followed.

He was led into the auditorium, where a woman with long brown hair was waiting for them. "This is Dave Karofsky," Puck said, jamming his thumb over his shoulder. "Dave, this is..."

"Shelby Corcoran." The woman extended a hand; Dave took it, surprised at how firm her shake was.

"I know. I remember you from when you were head of Vocal Adrenaline. I was in the Dalton Academy Warblers."

"And now you're here?" She raised an eyebrow. "Never mind." Shelby turned back to Puck. "Noah, mind explaining what he's doing here?"

Puck sighed. "I can't find Quinn."

"Really." She frowned. "You told me that she doesn't want to associate with you anymore."

"No."

"Not that it makes much of a difference to me, but... that kind of tension can't be good for Beth. Especially if you both want to be part of her life..."

Dave shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He was as uncertain as to the reason for his presence as Shelby. He already knew a lot of what they were discussing from Kurt, but being part of this when it seemed like it wasn't any of his business was off-putting, to say the least.

"Look, I'll figure out a way to fix things before she's old enough to notice, okay? Right now, I do want to see Beth, and I don't see why Quinn needs to like me to do it."

Shelby shrugged. "As I said, I don't particularly care, as long as Beth's best interests are kept. But that still doesn't explain him." She glanced towards Dave. "No offense," she said in a perfunctory tone.

"None taken. I was wondering that myself."

Puck took an audible inhale. "I wanted you two to meet, because I figured you should know, since you might be seeing more of each other: Dave's going to be helping me get the real Quinn back." Shelby and Dave took a surprised glance at each other, for completely different reasons. _What the hell did I sign up for?_ Dave asked himself. "I've been talking this over with Ms. Pillsbury and... uh, someone else. Quinn and I were never really close, but I guess I feel kinda responsible, since Beth's my kid too, and I don't want her mom to be shut out of her life."

"I have to admit," Shelby began, "I'm very reluctant to let Quinn see Beth the way she is now. Especially when she seems to have abandoned the Glee Club, you, and the rest of her old friends."

"Yeah, that's the other thing. She may hate me, but we are still sort of friends." Here he turned to Dave. "I know I'm dropping this on you kinda sudden, but I'm desperate. Shelby can help you out, but you'd be doing the heavy lifting." This last seemed more directed at Shelby than at him.

Dave cleared his throat, sending Puck's eyes back in his direction. "Yeah, that's kinda the point... I don't think I'm the right person to be doing this. Shouldn't you be talking to her folks? Or to the counselor? Or..."

Puck shook his head firmly. "You don't know her family, dude; her parents are kinda fucked up. And I don't think she'll listen to adults, or anyone she knows really well anyway. Either that, or she'll pretend she's all right and hide everything. But she barely knows you, especially since she skipped out on us all summer. You might be able to get through to her. I dunno if it'll work, but like I said, I'm desperate. I gotta give whatever I can a shot." To Dave's surprise, something resembling a puppy dog look actually came over Puck's face. He had no idea if Puck even knew he was doing it, but damn, it was surprisingly good. "Please, man."

Dave rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Okay," he sighed, "fine. But no promises."

The look of relief that came over Puck's face was almost as foreign to Dave's limited experience as the puppy dog. "Thanks. Like I said, I owe you."

"Fuck, yeah, you do." _God, what the hell am I getting into...?_

* * *

The fact that Judy Fabray still had absolutely no idea what Quinn currently looked like confirmed everything she'd ever believed about her mother. Then again, perhaps that was unfair; she was obviously still dealing with the repercussions of the divorce, the pressure it'd put on both their lives. Add that to her father's recent demands (what they were, she had no idea; the two communicated exclusively through attorneys) and hints of trouble in her sister's marriage, and that added up to a lot of nights of her mom shut into the master bedroom, doing and thinking who knows what.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the excuses, it still meant that she was going this alone. And why not? It wasn't like she needed anyone else. Especially the Glee Club, that pack of pathetic losers. How could they be anything else when they kept someone like Puck in their ranks? The very thought of him, of that judgmental look he gave her during their last confrontation (whether it better or worse than the pity, she didn't know) made her almost dizzy with anger.

Still, once she knew Shelby Corcoran was back in town, she realized she'd probably made a mistake. No way was Shelby going to let her get within ten feet of Beth with the rep she'd been building up. For a moment, she was tempted to go back to the Glee Club, back to the way she was (at least externally), but the idea of being within ten feet of Puck shattered that plan.

One drawback to being a cool, distant badass was that you had very few people to talk to when your head was awash with issues and the horizon of your life seemed grey. Just thinking about discussing any of this with the other Skanks was laughable. Well, maybe Ronnie would be a little sympathetic; God knew she had experience with the whole crappy family life thing. But Quinn had the distinct feeling that not even she would be able to contribute anything more than a "that sucks. Wanna 'nother cig?" And she needed a little more than that to make sense of things.

She only had her imagination to tell her what Beth looked like. Sometimes she'd search in Google Images for babies around her age, and find a picture - any picture - and pretend it was her. That she, Quinn, had taken the picture, on an outing to the park or at a picnic or on her birthday...

Quinn shook her head, driving out the mental images even as she wiped away the beginnings of tears. She was a Skank, dammit; it wouldn't do the rep of the group much good to be seen sobbing in the halls like a child. Still, Beth returning to Lima was a sign. It had to be. Just when she'd given up, just when she thought... well, never mind what she thought. But the fact remained: Beth was within her grasp once more, and not even God Himself would be able to separate her from her arms this time.

Still, she could already see that her options were limited. She had no idea how to approach Shelby without looking like the opportunist she admittedly was, or how to demonstrate her worth to even get close to Beth (and she needed to, not only to see her - _her! _- daughter, but to do what was necessary to make Beth hers once more). With a dilemma like this, she knew she might end up having to take desperate measures, but she just could _not_ get past the nausea she felt at even thinking about Puck. Well, she had to tell herself that if she had to, it would be a small price to pay to...

"Hey."

She stopped, startled. With a sigh, Quinn turned to face the other person. "I thought we talked about this," she said quietly.

"That isn't about that. Not now."

"Fine, then what is this about?" Quinn felt her inner Skanky bitch bubbling back up to the surface. "Better make it quick; I don't have all day."

"Not bad, not bad. Still not up to your best, but you're getting there." Santana Lopez crossed her arms. "You know I was booted from the Glee Club?"

"I think I heard that somewhere. Good for you for not crawling back to them like a pathetic wimp."

"Well, I've got a new gig now: Shelby Corcoran's new glee club."

Quinn's spine stiffened. "And this should interest me because...?" she began carefully.

"Look, we're friends, so I'm gonna be straight with you: we need more members. And since you're unattached..."

Her mind was whirling. She needed a moment... just a moment... to get herself back under control. "What does Coach think of all this?"

Santana smirked. "Actually, she approves. She likes Ms. Corcoran a lot better than Mr. Schue. They've actually been talking, swapping 'motivational techniques.' Don't tell anyone, though; it'd look bad for her campaign." The grin dropped off her face. "I'm gonna be honest, Q: like I said before, I miss the Unholy Trinity. This is our chance to get it back together. For good, this time."

"Brittany's in?"

"Not yet. But she will be. And we could use another good performer anyway. Sugar... she's... well, she's _special_, if you get my meaning." To Quinn's surprise, a look of something vaguely resembling pleading came into Santana's eyes. "How about it, Quinn? I mentioned you to Ms. Corcoran, and she said she wouldn't mind. She said something about 'examining your development,' and that maybe she'd let you see Beth if you stayed on the up and up." Santana took a step forward, resting a hand on Quinn's shoulder. "Come on. Unholy Trinity?"

Russell Fabray always said that "things had a way of working out." Quinn never really bought that hoary cliche, even less so after the last few years of her life. But now, she was starting to think there may be something to it. She couldn't believe that she'd ever given even a single thought to rejoining the Glee Club. Now this golden opportunity just dropped into her lap...

For the first time in almost three years, she truly felt like God loved her.

"For life," she responded. Both girls smiled.

* * *

Dave rubbed his palms together, trying to dry out the sweat. "Shit, I'm glad you're here, Kurt. I'd be freaking out without you."

Kurt peeked out from the wings, watching as a theater student he didn't know finished up his audition. "I'm happy to be here for you. But I'd have thought you'd have this handled by now. You're a veteran performer."

"Yeah, well, auditions still make me nervous. It's like stripping, only you get judged for it, and you don't even get any money."

"Nice simile," Kurt said with a smirk. "Well, I'm sure you'll do wonderfully. Probably better than me."

The downcast turn of Kurt's eyes and voice drove all nervousness from Dave's mind. "Come on, you did great. All that prep work really paid off." Kurt had taken his audition extremely seriously, consulting extensively with Gavroche, Dave, and even Rachel for practice and opinions, calling it his "pre-NYADA audition audition." Dave had been in the back of the auditorium as Kurt, breaking out some of the flannel and caps he'd worn during his "closeted phase" two years previous, sang "Maria" for Artie and the other members of the casting committee. There had been little overt criticism at the end, with Coach Beiste calling his voice "wonderful," but their noncommittal, somewhat lukewarm feelings towards him as Tony were obvious. At the Abrams house, Dave had overheard Artie wonder aloud if Kurt had the "physicality" necessary for the role. He did not, of course, tell Kurt this.

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure it was enough to impress Artie and the others. Oh, well, there are plenty of roles. And you know what they say about small parts..." Kurt's eyes, half-lidded and staring at the floor, and his feet, kicking at invisible dust, belied the cheerful words and their upbeat tone.

"Hey." Dave wrapped his arms tightly around Kurt. The latter stiffened in surprise for a moment, but quickly relaxed into it, returning the embrace. "This isn't the end of the world. Like you said, you'll have more chances in the glee club. And hey, maybe this is all just speculation. Maybe you'll land Tony, and we'll go out to dinner and laugh about how you were worrying for nothing."

"Thanks for lying," Kurt replied, his voice muffled in Dave's shirt. "It's very sweet of you." They separated. "I'm hoping they'll at least give me a good meaty part, either singing or acting. Maybe Action, or Bernardo."

"They're idiots if they don't. I can threaten Artie, you know. Hide his glasses, sabotage his car."

Kurt chuckled. "No, don't. I don't want to imagine what he could do if he decided to use the Bully Whips for evil. Whatever happens, I'll deal."

"Next!" Artie's voice carried impressively from the theatre seats, directly into the wings. The two jumped.

"That's my cue," Dave rumbled, the twitchy nervousness returning to his eyes.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to audition for Tony?"

"I told you, I'm sure. I'm more 'rough and tumble' and aggressive than romantic lead."

"I beg to differ," Kurt said with a smile. "Remember, you're making another batch of gazpacho for dinner this weekend."

"Right. Anyway, I swear, I want to play Riff. It's perfect; I get to just hang out backstage all of Act 2!"

"Dave?" Artie's voice came again. "We're waiting!"

"Go!" Kurt commanded, slapping Dave on the shoulder. "Break a leg!"

"Thanks!" He gave Kurt a quick kiss on the cheek and ran out onto the stage. "Sorry about that...!" he called out as he stepped into the spotlights.

His cheek burning, Kurt leaned against a wall as he watched Dave onstage. If he didn't know better, he would've sworn the ex-Warbler was completely calm, collected, and confident. He felt an odd mix of hope and pride, as if he had something to do with the man on stage. That, of course, was ridiculous; Kurt had found him that way, really. Fine, maybe he'd practiced the New York City accent with Dave, but that was it.

Still, this would be a great distraction for him. Not to mention hockey season coming, which Dave never ceased to talk about enthusiastically. And now, new friends at Dalton. That could only be good for him.

Then there was _them_ - their relationship (he was increasingly only remembering after the fact to add "probationary" to it, which seemed to be a sign). Sure, there was routine: coffee every afternoon they were both free (which weren't many, frankly), dinner on the weekends either out or at the Hummel-Hudson household, snuck-in affection at glee club meetings. But still, it was the _good_ kind of routine, the kind that was comfortable, like a warm blanket.

With effort, Kurt turned his attention back to the stage; Dave was preparing to start his audition. Still, his mind kept drifting back to _them_. Sometimes he wondered (and he was sure Dave wondered too) if they'd last, or if this was some kind of high school thing (especially given their uncertainty over post-graduation plans). Still, it seemed to be going wonderfully so far. If nothing else happened, he told himself as Dave began to sing, he could let himself imagine something like, something slightly resembling, forever...

_When you're a Jet_  
_You're a Jet all the way  
From your first cigarette  
To your last dying day..._

**AN: Kurt's need to get the role of Tony always struck me as at least partly born of panic. More relaxed Kurt = less panic = less absolute NEED to get Tony, IMO. **

**Unrelated musing: I'm getting more glad I didn't have Dave be a junior. I have NO idea how RIB is going to keep Klaine interesting with the inevitable (if the spoilers are true) separation. Dramatic, yes. Interesting, not the foggiest idea, especially since (SPOILER) I'm _less_ inclined to keep Kurt in Lima (though readers should keep their minds open and alert... I'm NOT RIB, thank God, so who knows what I could do? :)).  
**

******Oh, and anyone else find it a little odd that in canon, there only seemed to be, like, six roles in _West Side Story_? Did I miss an explanation somewhere? I don't think even a small high school would cut THAT much material, even with limited casting options...**

**Constructive feedback is always appreciated (and mindless gushing praise - everyone needs a little of that in their lives, I say!).  
**


	6. Asian F: First Steps

**AN: And we're back. It's been a while, but I had to get through this chapter first. But I think things will really start to pick up now (not coincidentally, this is also the time it sort of did in canon too), and I hope y'all stay with me (and grow in number, of course!). Now that things are getting fully set up, I believe/hope there'll be more focus on the primary characters from here on in.  
**

**As always, useful feedback is appreciated! (One possible specific: rewriting the summary.)  
**

"I'm scared, Kurt."

Kurt looked up at Dave. The other's face wasn't exactly terrified, but there was an edge of nervousness to it. "Really? What of?"

"That I'm getting caught up in all the McKinley weirdness."

"Ah." Kurt chuckled, immediately feeling more relaxed. "Well, don't worry. If we start playing musical dating chairs like Rachel and Finn, I'll be the first to get out the shotgun."

"Please do," Dave laughed. "Seriously, though, Kurt, this thing Puck has me doing... It's making me _really_ uncomfortable."

"So don't do it. I'm worried about Quinn too, but I'm sure Puck would understand. He'll find some other way to..."

"It's not that. Not exactly." Dave took a quick look around, as if to confirm no one else in the hall was interested in the conversation. He took a breath and continued. "I'm really starting to think he's right."

"Oh?" The question was short and breathy, but it was infused with a spectrum of worry and fear that sent Dave's head nodding.

"I don't know her all that well, but from what you and Puck have told me, I have some idea, and what she's doing now... One thing I've learned from Dr. Macey and my therapy is that this kind of radical personality change coming so quick is a bad sign, at least."

"Has she done anything that...?"

Dave shook his head. "Not yet. But even I can tell she's up to something. Something serious. That's what _really_ has me worried. I didn't want to get drawn into this, but... I think I'm in now."

Kurt gently touched Dave's shoulder. "On behalf of the rest of the Glee Club, I thank you, David. Even if you can't get through to her, knowing that someone is keeping an eye on her is a big relief."

"Yeah, well, don't thank me yet. You can't make someone want to be saved. I definitely know that from personal experience." The bell rang. Kurt and Dave began trotting down the hall towards their respective classes. "Oh, hey, Sebastian's coming for a visit to Lima on Saturday. I'd really love it if you two could meet."

Kurt nodded. Sebastian had been a semi-frequent topic of conversation for Dave of late, especially in relation to reports on the Dalton GSA, and various Warbler activities. It certainly piqued his curiosity about this guy. "I don't believe I have any other plans. I'd be happy to meet your new friend."

Dave beamed. "Great! How's three sound?"

"Sounds wonderful!" And Kurt meant it then. He really did. It was only later that he'd slap his forehead and wonder just what he was thinking. Then again, he told himself, how could he have known? Not that it helped.

* * *

"You sure about this?" Quinn asked skeptically as she, Santana, and Sugar crossed the football field.

Santana shrugged. "You heard Shelby; we need members, and fast."

"I don't know if I can talk them into this..."

"If you can't, whatever. We have our backup plan." The trio ducked under the bleachers. The three Skanks were indeed there, their cigarette smoke tickling the noses of all present.

"What're you doing here?" The Mack snarled as she puffed. "I thought you were too good to hang around us anymore."

"You know I didn't leave because of that," Quinn said. "I need your guys' help."

"Doing what?" Ronnie asked boredly. "Sucking up to your glee club or whatever?"

"No, I'm part of a new group, but we need more members."

Sheila snorted. "Lemme guess: you want US to be part of this."

Quinn nodded. "Please."

There was a moment of dead silence. Then all three Skanks broke out into peals of hysterical laughter. "Come... come _on_!" The Mack finally managed to gasp out. "Join a glee club? Us?"

"We can't even fucking sing! What kind of desperate bullshit is this?" Ronnie snickered.

"I know _you_ can sing," Quinn replied quietly. The mirth immediately poured off Ronnie's face like sweat, replaced with a death glare. Quinn shrugged, uncowed. "I heard you in the bathroom once."

"So fucking what?" Sheila cut in. "There is _no_ way we are doing this. None."

Quinn looked at Santana helplessly. The latter just grinned, and touched Sugar's shoulder. The blonde stepped forward with a bright smile. "Hi." The Skanks stared, partly in disbelief, partly in contempt. "I'm Sugar. This is _my_ glee club I'm recruiting for."

"Good for you," Ronnie sneered.

"Look, I'm going to be straight with you: we need the members. You aren't exactly... the kind of people I'd usually ask..." Here her critical eye roved the three tobacco-puffing girls; they bristled visibly. "But beggars can't be choosers, huh?"

"Right." Quinn stiffened nervously; it was just one syllable out of Sheila's mouth, but it spoke volumes: she was preparing to cut a bitch. "And why would we get within a hundred miles of your stupid loser _pathetic _club?"

"How about a recruitment fee?" Sugar pulled six twenties out of her purse and handed two to each of them. The Skanks froze, staring at the money in their hands.

The Mack was the first to act; she held one of the bills up to the light, squinting. She frowned, then stared at the smiling Sugar. "You're going to _pay_ us to be in your glee club?"

"Uh huh."

"So there's _more_ where this came from?"

"My daddy's rich," Sugar replied simply.

The Skanks looked at the money. They looked at each other. They looked at Sugar. Santana and Quinn pressed close to her, just in case the other trio tried anything funny. Finally, after long moments where the only sound was the crinkling of new bills...

"When's rehearsals?"

Sugar squealed. Quinn's jaw dropped. Santana just looked smug.

* * *

It was strange, how Mike felt like his life was going smoothly and totally off the tracks at the same time. But then, given the bright shining line he was stepping over every time he left the house, maybe it was natural.

On one side of the line: home. Dad. Who only allowed him football because it would look good on his resume, and the Bully Whips because of one of the founders ("He's Roger Anderson's son, isn't he? I'm glad you're thinking about your future. Having connections like that will serve you well in the professional world.").

On the other side: the Glee Club. Tina. Dance. Where he was Mike, not Michael (and don't think he hadn't wondered occasionally about the motives for naming him as a Junior). Where he belonged.

The two worlds could not, could never, meet. No doubt about it; auditioning for _West Side Story_ was a major risk in that regard. He already sensed he was skating on thin ice with his last exam. But then he thought of Tina: of her encouragement, of her leading him in hours of singing practice (punctuated regularly by tongue workouts as a reward), of the way her eyes seemed to light up every time she watched him perform... Then there was that rush as he stepped out onto the stage: the dazzling lights in his eyes, the clopping of his feet against the boards, the _presence_ in the darkness beyond (only a few figures, he knew, including Artie and Coach Beiste, but they were enough).

"What have you got for us, Mike?" Artie's voice rang out from the shadows.

"'Cool,'" Mike replied, and they all knew what he meant. A quick glance behind him to make sure the guys (some of whom were already grumbling, but they weren't going to bolt now, not with Coach just a few dozen feet away) were ready, and he began.

Normally, he performed with the utmost confidence, but this time was different. First, he was singing: the first major test of his and Tina's hard work. Then there was the fact that this was an audition; that always put on its own unique pressure. Finally, there was his competition for the role of Riff. Dave Karofsky was pretty damn good himself; Mike hadn't been able to see his audition, but from Kurt's smiles the next day, he knew that it was most likely fantastic. He had to bring his own A game to beat that.

_Breeze it, buzz it...  
Easy does it..._

Even has he spun on his heel, the reminder of "A's" chilled his heart. Which in turn reminded him of the weirdest thing... After a recent football practice, Blaine Anderson had caught him out in the locker room. At first, Mike had assumed that it was Bully Whips business, but Anderson, after a nervous flicker of his eyes and lick of his lips, almost stuttered out a question that Mike did _not_ expect to hear.

"So, uh... remember last year, when I mentioned my dad, and you told me about Rutherford?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Um... How do you handle your dad?"

Mike stared.

"Hello? Chang? Anyone home?" Blaine frowned in annoyance.

"Huh?"

"I asked you a question. It was kind of hard to ask to begin with, so if you're just going to ignore me, I'll..."

"No, wait! Sorry, man. It's just... I don't think I'm the guy you should be asking."

"Why not? I thought you said..."

Mike rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, I did. And I still haven't figured it out myself."

"But I thought you were trying out for the musical? I can't see your old man as someone who'll be okay with that. Mine wouldn't."

"No, he won't. But at least yours would just act disappointed. Mine would actually _do_ something about it."

Blaine shook his head. "I'll never get used to this whole 'everyone knows my parents' thing." He sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be ragging on your dad like that." Mike stared again. "What did I say now?"

"You really have changed. You never would've apologized for that last year. You wouldn't have apologized for _anything_ last year."

Blaine shrugged, a gesture that seemed affectedly casual. "Yeah, well... I've been doing a lot of growing up these past few months."

"You must have, to be running the GSA with Kurt." Mike cocked his head. "See? Being gay isn't so bad, is it?"

"What?"

"I mean, you haven't caught 'the gay' hanging around with Kurt or the other GSA members, have you? I'm straight too, and I haven't either. I'm glad you're learning that there's nothing wrong with Kurt or Dave or any of the others."

"Oh. Oh, right. Yeah." Blaine exhaled sharply. "Look, if you can't help me, maybe I can help you. What does your mom think about this?"

"Mom?" Mike paused to reflect; he actually hadn't even _considered_ his mother. "She just goes with whatever Dad says. I don't think she..."

"Try her. She might surprise you. She might actually have a mind of her own. Sometimes I wonder if my own Mom..." Blaine shrugged helplessly. "Whatever. It's just a suggestion..."

"Hey." Blaine looked up sharply at Mike's soft word. "Thanks. I have no idea why you care, but you're one of the few people who actually does, and I, uh... I appreciate it."

"Yeah, well... Just because I'm an idiot, and still give a shit about what my dad wants from me, doesn't mean you have to too." Blaine looked up; he was grinning, but Mike could tell it didn't reach his eyes. "_One_ of us should be able to get out. Might as well be you if it can't be me." He turned and slung his bag over his shoulder. "I gotta go; I have a presidential candidate to talk to. Later, Chang."

Blaine left the locker room without another word. The sense of uneasiness Mike felt then started to make his feet stumble over themselves now.

_Dammit, focus!_

The uneasiness came from such a dizzyingly wide variety of sources that he couldn't figure out how to process it all: Dad, the audition, the future, Anderson... There was more, a hell of a lot more, to Blaine Anderson than he thought, and he'd seen more of it in eight months than he had since he met the guy in seventh grade. It was like waking up one morning and finding that the sky had _always_ been orange - it had never been blue, don't be silly. _Surreal_. That was the word. Surreal. He couldn't process this new information, its significance; he wasn't even sure _how_ to process it, let alone work through what it meant.

It wasn't like he didn't have enough in his own life to think about. He felt vaguely guilty for the urge to just dismiss it all and concentrate on himself, but as Tina once remarked, if he didn't look out for what he wanted, who would?

_Speaking of which..._ He snapped his attention fully back onto his voice and his feet. He (somehow, miraculously, in his mind) managed to finish up "Cool" without any major catastrophes. In the moment after his voice died away in its last notes, the only things he could hear were the pounding of his own heart and the heaving of his lungs. Slowly other sounds filtered in: the panting of the guys behind him, the squeak of shoes... then, applause. _Holy shit... Are they actually clapping?_ He had no idea whether this was standard - another reason he should have checked in on Dave's audition - but this had to be good, right?

"Very nice!" Artie declared. "You've really come a long way!"

"Thanks," Mike replied, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at Artie's taking the "elder veteran" role with him; the dude was a year younger, after all. But then, he _was _a founding member of New Directions. That had to count for something.

In his exhaustion and nervousness, it took Mike a moment to realize that there were no further words. He squinted through the lights into the shadows beyond. Artie, Ms. Pillsbury, and Coach Beiste were discussing something amongst themselves. Mike's heart raced; he had no idea what this meant. If any emotion could kill him, kill his soul, it was uncertainty.

Finally, the chattering ceased. All three returned their gaze to the stage, to Mike. It was Artie who spoke.

"So... it says here you're auditioning for Riff."

"Uh huh..." His mouth was suddenly dry.

"How would you like to be considered for the role of Tony...?"

* * *

Mercedes hadn't felt so good in a long time. Sure, she'd always worked hard to achieve, both in and out of the classroom, but there came a point (about a year ago, maybe?) where it all seemed so... pointless. It was hard, busting your butt to be the best diva you could be, only to be overshadowed and overlooked in favor of you-know-who over and over and OVER. After a while, even the most radiant and ambitious would start to wonder: what's the point? Who could you turn to? The man with the power to _do_ something about it was Rachel's biggest fan.

Worse, one of her best friends started getting _closer_ to this solo-vampire. Not that Mercedes begrudged Rachel friends, of course, or that she didn't understand why (she had to admit, Rachel and Kurt were a lot alike in ways neither of them probably wanted to acknowledge), but it was just another reminder of how people and events just seemed to fall into place for her at a whim. That kind of thing really weighed on a girl's morale.

But now... things were changing for the better. Mr. Schue really seemed like he was going to follow through with his promise of more open solos. (Rachel, at the least, believed him, from the way she was behaving lately - that alone was worth it, even if nothing did change.) Artie was in charge of _West Side Story_, which could do nothing but help the situation. She was really starting to get the hang of Booty Camp, and her audition went, well, terrific.

It really felt like Mercedes Jones was finally on her way. Sitting there in Ms. Pillsbury's office next to Rachel, awaiting their judgment... She couldn't help but feel hopeful.

It seemed forever before she entered, Artie and Coach Beiste close behind. Their faces were neutral, almost impassive. Mercedes' heart pounded.

It took a few agonizing minutes for the three to settle themselves. Once Artie opened his mouth, the two girls leaned forward unconsciously. "We've made a decision," he said simply.

Mercedes thought later that she probably resembled a fish in the following moments, staring open-mouthed as she listened to their proposal.

Double casting? She had to _share_ Maria with Rachel? She had to stand in the damn girl's shadow _again?_

She was about to bust out into the loudest "oh HELL no!" of her life when she happened to get a glimpse of Artie. Then all protest died in her throat. He was staring at Rachel, with this hard, shrewd expression. Mercedes' eyes flickered to Ms. Pillsbury and Coach Beiste; they too were looking at Rachel in something like... expectation? She turned to Rachel herself, and saw shock, anger... Exactly what Mercedes herself had felt.

Her head whirled. Were they watching for some kind of reaction from _Rachel_? Was this a test of some kind, to see how she'd take sharing the spotlight?

The more Mercedes thought, and the more she watched Artie's anticipatory stare, the more sense it made. Rachel was good, no denying that - it wasn't that she was getting the solos for no reason. But in this new team-oriented regime that seemed to be developing, what kind of place did she have? What kind of place would she _accept_? It only made sense that Artie (with his new found love of power) would try to answer that question.

Well, one way to find out: try playing her own role. "I accept," Mercedes said brightly.

Rachel's mouth hung open in surprise. Artie's poker face flickered, just a little, proving her hunch right. He turned back to Rachel. "What about you, Rachel?" he asked with a casualness that was just too careful to actually be casual.

There was a dead silence that stretched so long that Mercedes started to fidget. Watching Rachel, the panoply of reactions and emotions that sped past her face, one after the other, she was half-tempted (though she'd slap herself mentally for it later) to give up her half of Maria just to make it _end_.

Finally, after an eon, Rachel spoke.

* * *

West Side Story  
CAST LIST

Tony: Mike Chang

(Tina squealed loud enough to be heard in Michigan. She wrapped her arms around Mike's neck, jumping up and down and blabbering like Rachel after a sugar bender. Mike, for his part, could only stare, his eyes wide.)

("Wow," Kurt breathed. "I'm so happy for him." Dave could tell he really was, despite his equally obvious disappointment at not getting the role himself. "He's been working so hard...")

Maria: Rachel Berry and Mercedes Jones

("Double casting?" Dave asked. "That's a new one by me."

"I wonder what Rachel thinks," Kurt mused.)

("You got Maria," Finn said gently. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"...")

Riff: Dave Karofsky

("Congratulations!" On a wild impulse (the best kind), Kurt smooched Dave full on the lips in front of a bustling school crowd. He didn't fail to notice that barely any of the passersby batted an eye. _Maybe this school really _is _changing for the better this time..._

"Thanks," Dave rumbled, returning the kiss. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"Oh, pshaw. This was all you. You're gonna _kill_ this role.")

Bernardo: George Quinones  
Anita: Santana Lopez

("Makes sense," Kurt mused. "They're about the only artistic-minded Hispanic students here. Come to think of it, they're among the _only_ Hispanic students. As you may've noticed, we're a bit white here at McKinley High." He returned to the cast list. "Okay, I've been patient enough. I've got to find _me_. God, please...")

Action: Kurt Hummel

("Well!" Kurt exhaled. "At least I have a lead in a song. That's definitely more than I could've gotten."

Dave rubbed Kurt's shoulder. "You're gonna be great. You're gonna knock everyone dead."

"Of course," came the grinning reply. "But it's nice to hear you say it."

Dave didn't reply. Instead, his hand dove into his pocket, plucking out his cell phone. He pressed a button and read the screen. A smile spread across his face. "Got a text from Sebastian. He's on for tomorrow."

"Can't wait!" Yet another moment for Kurt to look back on with a shake of his head and a shudder.)

* * *

As Sebastian strode into the Lima Bean, his critical eye grudgingly approved. He appreciated this kind of atmosphere: planned yet homey, crowded yet quiet, with a selection that had a few highlights that were hard to find even in Westerville. _I could hang at a place like this_, he thought. _Hell, I could live here. Just give m__y laptop and I'd never leave..._

He ordered his coffee, a South American blend that sounded mildly intriguing, and took a table near the door, where he could see and be seen. Already, a redhead sitting nearby was giving him the eye... as was his girlfriend. He shot them both a charming smile; the girl giggled while the guy blushed and looked away.

A few minutes later, as he sipped his coffee (not bad; he appreciated the bitter notes), Sebastian mentally went over his game plan. He'd made some great progress with Dave over the past few weeks. He prided himself on his ability to read and connect with people; it was no problem to figure out what buttons Dave had that he could push: loyalty, humor, a sense of civic responsibility towards (gag) the "gay community." His friends in the Warblers definitely helped refine Sebastian's approach, albeit unwittingly. All in all, he was pleased, and relieved; he'd have hated to have spent all that (mostly mind-numbingly dull) time in GSA meetings for nothing.

Today was a key juncture, and probably the most unpleasant part of this whole scheme. With Dave's progress firmly on track, he would now have to make nice with Kurt, Dave's boyfriend. Sebastian didn't have a clear mental picture of Kurt; Dave had told him all about his emotional and personality attributes (intelligent, fashionable, in McKinley's glee club, and on and on in such glowing terms that Sebastian seriously needed Pepto after a few of these conversations), but not much about him physically. That made it difficult to create the full mental picture he needed to really plot his approach. The veteran Warblers weren't much help either; Kurt had only been among them for barely half the school year, after all. Sebastian grimaced as he took another sip of coffee; he hated winging it (although doing so had its own unique thrill), but he didn't have much of a choice.

"Hey." He nearly jumped out of his seat. Dave had appeared out of nowhere, standing in front of his table with a smile. Sebastian mentally chided himself for his distraction; this wouldn't do, not at all, not if he was going to do what he had to to make his move.

"Hey yourself." Sebastian jumped to his feet and wrapped Dave in a friendly hug, which Dave returned. The warmth, those arms... God, he wanted nothing more than to jump the dude right here, right now. But no. Patience. The time would come. It _would_... He looked around as they separated. "Where's Kurt?"

"Parking. He'll be in in a sec. I'm really glad you two could meet. He's kind of a special part of my life now, and..."

_Oh, God, spare me..._ "Sure thing."

"He's been looking forward to this as much as I have..." _I seriously doubt that,_ Sebastian thought. "We all have the Warblers in common, so we have a lot to talk ab... Ah, there he is! Hey, Kurt!" Dave began waving towards a figure entering the coffee shop. Sebastian turned his head and saw...

_Holy hell... _This_ is my competition?_ Sebastian almost felt insulted. This mincing twink turned Dave on? Seriously? The nausea returned as Dave put an arm around Kurt's shoulder and gave him this beaming, happy look straight out of a Care Bears special.

"Kurt, this is Sebastian Smythe. Sebastian, Kurt Hummel."

The other stuck out a hand. "Pleased to meet you."

There were so many - _so_ many - things Sebastian could've said, wanted to say, in that moment.

"Dave, I am _so_ sorry. There's been a huge misunderstanding. I thought you were _gay._"

"Did you dress yourself, or were you caught in an exploding Nordstrom's?"

"Look, Dave, I don't want the responsibility of raising a child right now. Maybe when your little rugrat starts elementary school, then we can talk. In the meantime, where _is_ your boyfriend?"

Instead, he had to get his satisfaction in managing to keep a straight face, taking Kurt's (limp, of course) hand, and shaking firmly.

"Pleased to meet you too."

* * *

Kurt's nerves jangled every time Sebastian laughed - more so when Dave joined him.

He felt somewhat guilty over it; there was no apparent reason for hostility at all. Sebastian was witty and charming; he said all the right things and gave what seemed to be genuine smiles. He was definitely interested in Dave's life, and gave rapt attention to their conversations, even when Kurt was doing the talking. He paid for both Kurt's and Dave's drinks. He seemed like a perfectly nice person.

So why did Kurt feel like wrapping his fingers around Sebastian's throat and shaking as hard as he could?

"Kurt?"

"Hmm?" He snapped to attention. Dave and Sebastian were looking at him with somewhat bemused looks. On Dave, it was adorable. On Sebastian, it made him want to throw a hot drink in his face. Again the guilt stabbed at him. "I'm sorry, did I miss something?"

"Yes," Sebastian chuckled. "Dave asked you a question."

"I was telling Sebastian about _West Side Story_, but I forgot when rehearsals start."

"Oh! Next Wednesday."

"That's right. It'll be a little hairy, with hockey season starting soon, but I'm hoping that if I get on the team, the overlap with the glee club won't be so bad."

"Right, I remember you said you were into hockey. I play lacrosse. It's sort of like hockey. Similar play, strategies, things like that."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Please do," Sebastian replied. "I am a _very_ trustworthy font of information." Dave laughed. On a wild impulse, Kurt reached under the table and grabbed Dave's hand. The squeeze that resulted relaxed him a little. "I hope you do well in your tryouts. We singer/athletes have to stick together, after all."

Dave snickered. "Heh, yeah. Thanks, though."

"Still, there's something to be said about differences, isn't there?" Kurt could almost feel himself start to blabber on, despite realizing that his words were somewhat of a non-sequitur, driven by some force he didn't quite comprehend with his conscious mind. "As I told Dave when we first started associating, people without much in common can learn a lot from each other - teach them new things and help them grow."

Sebastian frowned, as if mulling over the words. Kurt's heart sank; if his instincts about this guy were wrong, then he just made himself look like some kind of crazy person. "I guess...?"

Dave shrugged. "It's true, though. I've learned more about fashion than I ever would have without him. And... a few other things about myself." He shot Kurt a fond look that relaxed the other even further.

"That's sweet." The tone certainly _sounded_ genuine, and nothing on Sebastian's face so much as hinted at insincerity, but once again, Kurt's tension rose. He found himself clutching Dave's hand even more tightly. Dave frowned in confusion, but, thank the heavens, said nothing.

The rest of the get-together went about as well as Kurt could've reasonably hoped. The conversation turned more innocuous, with Sebastian talking about the latest activities of the Dalton GSA (although Kurt had to consciously resist rolling his eyes on multiple occasions). Kurt had his own tales of the McKinley version of the organization, Dave about his preparations for hockey tryouts. They all talked about the Warblers, though Sebastian was understandably reticent about their competition plans.

Soon the sky began to fade to grey outside the windows of the Lima Bean. The three boys looked at each other, mutual understanding passing between them. They rose; Sebastian volunteered to clear their tables of cups and pastry wrappers. Kurt unaccountably, and quite on instinct, jumped in with his own insistence that he do it himself. As he took his hands full of garbage to the nearest trash bin, he glanced behind him nervously. Sebastian and Dave were shaking hands; that was all. Kurt had seen the hug between them earlier, but knew Dave had initiated it, and that it was nothing but friendly; Sebastian certainly hadn't reacted in any inappropriate way.

_So far, the only "inappropriate" reactions have been yours,_ he thought in chagrin. He returned to the group; he once again offered a hand to the Warbler. "It was nice to meet you," he said, inwardly wincing at his own insincerity. If Sebastian had known him better, or if Dave had been paying full attention rather than checking his texts, Kurt's lack of offer and hope for future meetings would've stuck out like Sugar Motta's voice in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

As it was, the blonde only returned the shake (and was it a little... firmer than it should've been? Kurt couldn't tell; everyone had their own standards of handshakes. Dave certainly forgot his own strength a time or two in their friendship). "Same here."

It wasn't until the drive back to Artie's house that Dave asked the question Kurt had been dreading. "So... what did you think?"

"Of Sebastian?" Kurt licked his lips and swallowed. "He seemed nice enough." And that had the advantage of being definitely true.

Dave nodded. "He's a cool guy."

Kurt nodded noncommittally. He returned his gaze to the road, trying very hard to suppress the clashing feelings of dread and shame. This was one of Dave's friends, for God's sake, a Warbler! He knew that insular bunch would never have let in someone who didn't "fit in" (though that was a whole other kettle of fish that Kurt hardly wanted to revisit). Still, amidst his conflicting feelings, Kurt knew one thing for sure.

He hated Sebastian Smythe. And he had no idea why.

**AN: Unless I completely missed something, there are MORE THAN FIVE ROLES IN WEST SIDE STORY, DAMMIT! I also can't imagine there wouldn't be someone other than the freakin' Glee Club auditioning. What about the students interested in, oh I dunno, _theatre_? (There are also some references here to another 'fic that is sadly in limbo at the moment. Catch 'em? :))**

**Hope this is still entertaining. Spread the word if you're enjoying!  
**


	7. Pot O'Gold: Point O'View

**AN: As always, if you have reasonable suggestions for this story, please let me know what they are! And to those of ya who still like this thing: I'm glad, but let me know that too. :)**

**Especially with this chapter; once I thought of the title, I just couldn't let the central conceit go. Hopefully it works out!  
**

One of the big things that Rory Flanagan was still getting used to about the American Midwest was the color. After all, his homeland wasn't called "the Emerald Isle" for nothing. It was lush and wet and green, the air suffused with sea saltiness, at least in his hometown. In this region, it was drier, yellower, but not the sickly drought yellow that he knew. It was actually more wheat-golden, crisp and charming in its own unique way.

When he found out where he was going on the student exchange, his friends were skeptical. "It's a small town, isn't it?" Brianna had observed after a quick Google search. "Probably not a lot going on in a place like that."

"What do they do for fun?" Seamus had chimed in. "Watch cows?"

But Rory hadn't minded, not really. He never felt very comfortable in big cities - too noisy and claustrophobic. He understood Brianna's yearning for Los Angeles (or more properly, Hollywood) and Seamus' excitement for New York, but Lima seemed to be more his speed. More relaxed, giving him the chance to get his bearings.

And when he arrived and met his host family, the Pierces, he discovered another benefit. Their daughter, Brittany, had come across as rather... odd in her pre-travel e-mail (there was some kind of warning about not playing Chris Brown music around her cat, because he had strong opinions about domestic violence...?), but when he met the girl in person... whoa. Hair as golden as her home, bright sparkling eyes, a lilting laugh that would've blended right in back in Ireland... Being able to see _that_ around every day would make up for a _lot _of homesickness, that was for sure. And if he ever got any further... Well, he was there to learn about a foreign culture, right? And wasn't sex a big part of any culture? It would be an educational experience, that was for sure.

Still, that would have to wait. He was still feeling out his new surroundings (and wondering why Americans insisted on all their food being both candy sweet and piled higher than an average lorry), not to mention his first day of school coming up. He must've shown his nervousness somehow, because one night at dinner, out of nowhere, Brittany turned to him and said reassuringly, "Don't worry about school. I've made sure the Bully Whips will have your back."

Rory stared in confusion, wondering if this was one of her _moods_. "The what?"

He got a sweet smile in reply. "You'll see." Then it was back to talking about someone named Santana, who didn't sound entirely pleasant from her descriptions, but every word was still infused with affection (something Rory had noticed long ago, and which somehow had inserted itself into his dreams).

It was grey and cool the morning he woke up for his first day at McKinley High School. He stumbled through his morning routine (quite literally; in his still half-dreaming daze, he forgot he wasn't in his own room and nearly tripped headlong over a chair). By the time he was dressed, Mrs. Pierce was shouting that it was almost time to go. Great, he'd have to settle for a cereal bar or something for breakfast. As he hurried down the hallway, he almost bumped into a black-clad figure. He began muttering apologies to Mr. Pierce when he realized... it wasn't Mr. Pierce.

Brittany was dressed in a sharply cut black suit. It was of conservative make - no plunging necklines here, and the skirt reached halfway down her shin - but good _Lord_ was the girl hot in it. Her hair was pulled up and back, woven into thick braids that ended in a shorter version of a ponytail. With her sunglasses, she gave the general impression of a grim, determined government agent.

The spy fantasy had always been a favorite of Rory's.

As for the leprechaun thing... Well, he had to admit that he wasn't exactly making the most honest effort to make Brittany understand that he wasn't one. He could claim that it was because he didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he knew that would be a blasted lie. Truth to tell, he wasn't used to getting that kind of attention from a girl who looked like Brittany, even under such shady circumstances, and he was loathe to let that attention go. At the least, it gave him time to figure out if he had any chance with her at all.

Now if only he knew how to make good on those three wishes.

McKinley High School was a rather drab set of buildings, in Rory's opinion, resembling a bunch of concrete boxes stacked together without much care. As he and Brittany approached, she explained the Bully Whips. It was apparently some kind of anti-bully club (though where the suits came from, she didn't say). Sounded rather odd, but as he was going to be a recipient of its protection, he wasn't about to complain. Rory had no illusions about becoming one of the popular kids; he wasn't even that back in Ireland.

"So here's your schedule..." She handed him a sheet of paper. Rory looked it over; nothing too unusual, if dull. But then, he supposed that school being boring _had_ to be one of those universal constants. "Don't worry about finding your way around. Dave will show you." She began to walk off. Rory hopped forward and grabbed her shoulder.

"Wait... you're not showing me around?"

Brittany shook her head sadly. "Sorry, I have patrol. But Dave will be your escort. Don't worry; he's a nice guy. He's a unicorn!" Rory didn't even try to understand what she meant. "You're still going to audition for the glee club, right?"

"I... suppose." Singing was part of his exchange program application, and Brittany had been questioning him about this since his arrival. Eh, why not; it would give him something else to do.

Plus, the way it made her face light up was something. "Great! I'll see you at lunch! Make sure you hide your pot of gold well, okay? People here are _tricky_!" She said this with such a serious expression that Rory was even more weirded out than usual. "Oh, and there's Dave! See ya!" She left with a gait that was just a small bounce away from _skipping_ - quite the contrast with her somber, serious, and kind of badass outfit.

Tearing his eyes away from Brittany's pert backside, he looked about the increasingly busy halls for this Dave person. He quickly found him: a huge bloke wearing a male version of Brittany's "uniform" was striding directly towards him with purpose. At his approach, the other boy grinned, which was a slightly less comforting gesture than it might've been, with his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "Rory? I'm Dave. I'll be showing you around." He stuck out a hand. Rory stared at it for a moment before shaking. To his relief, Dave wasn't like the other large guys he'd shook hands with in the past; he didn't squeeze Rory's hand overly tightly just to prove who the stronger man was.

"Pleased to meet ya." This time, it was Dave who stared. "Something the matter?"

"No, no, it's just... uh... I kinda like the accent." Dave grinned sheepishly, an expression that seemed - foreign? silly? - on his large frame.

"Ah... thank you?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Don't mind me; I can be a dipshit sometimes. Can I see your schedule?" Dave stuck out a beefy hand; it took Rory longer than he liked to fork over his schedule. "Okay, cool, your homeroom's same as mine. Follow me." Rory obeyed, though whether out of respect or fear, he wasn't sure.

"You know, you don't have to..."

"We kinda do. It's what the Bully Whips are all about. And honestly... not everyone here's gonna be friendly to the new guy." As Dave spoke, they passed by a small group of guys with rather _interesting_ hair; they were glaring at them as they walked by, although they did nothing more. Rory shuddered. Something about the way they looked at him... Suddenly, he couldn't doubt what Dave said at all.

"So..." Dave began, "Brittany said that you might be interested in the glee club."

Rory shrugged. "Maybe." He paused. "She's in it too, isn't she?"

"Yep. We could use some new members, so if you're interested, go for it. They're a friendly bunch too. Hell, we're most of the Bully Whips."

"I see." The more he thought about it, the more the glee club sounded like an intriguing possibility. It'd let him spend more time with Brittany, and if they were all as accommodating as her and Dave, they could be good friends to have in this foreign land.

If nothing else, it'd make his time here a little less lonely.

* * *

As he sat in on his first glee club meeting, Rory was starting to doubt his own judgment. He'd always heard that American personalities were a little... larger than life, but he never expected to see so many examples in one room at once. He was surprised that the egos alone didn't blow out the walls. Two of the girls in particular, Rachel Berry and Mercedes Jones, were frantically arguing over "artistic differences" in their portrayals of their characters in the school musical. It was only from listening to them for a few minutes (not that he had much of a choice at their volume) that he realized they were talking about the _same_ characters. Rory was about to dare to ask someone about this when the teacher, Mr. Schuester, entered the room.

He was a little relieved he'd taken Dave's suggestion and not auditioned yet; he'd have to think through whether this place, these people, were right for him. Then again, as Brianna had observed, there wasn't a lot else _to_ do, and he did like singing.

It was about halfway through the meeting, while a tall guy named Finn (apparently Rachel's boyfriend, which evoked nothing so much as pure pity) was performing an assignment, that Rory happened to glance to his right and saw Dave and a willowy boy who'd been introduced to him as Kurt... holding hands.

Rory's mouth turned dry and his hands twitched. This was the first time he'd ever been around... homosexuals, at least ones so open. He'd been raised Catholic, and although his parents were at least halfway lapsed, he still went to church and prayed, then went to school and prayed there too. Thus, this sudden confrontation with something he'd been taught was a sin was... disconcerting at best.

It wasn't that Rory was homophobic... at least, he didn't think so. It's just that in his experience so far, America seemed so much more... open about some things than Ireland, and this was definitely one of them. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he couldn't really say. While he couldn't pretend that he was completely _okay_ with this, he couldn't find it in himself to condemn either Dave or Kurt (both of whom seemed like perfectly nice people), not even in his head. The rest of the glee club had to have seen this relatively minor display of affection, but none of them so much as batted an eyelash.

None of this meant, though, that he was entirely comfortable with it. That was another factor in whether to join the glee club or not. If he really thought he'd have a problem with it...

"Fine!" Rachel's declaration to Mercedes snapped him out of his thoughts; but then, that voice could snap coma victims awake. "We can discuss this later. Perhaps this afternoon, after I finish hanging my campaign posters."

Rory was new to America, new to the group, and new to Kurt, but even he could interpret the expression that came over Kurt's face in that moment. If he had to put it into words, it would be something like "I am going to rip apart that bitch with my teeth. Perhaps even figuratively."

Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but a touch on his shoulder from Dave closed it again. Rory's eyes widened. _Huh._ Kurt certainly didn't strike him as the kind to back down easily. For Dave to shut him up without even a word... He'd always been told that homosexuality was all about sex - that there was no emotion, no love to it, just a "desire for, ah, intercourse," as one priest had put it. Rory had half-jokingly wondered at the time what was wrong with that; he certainly understood _that_ desire. But seeing Dave and Kurt right then... He began to wonder even deeper, about the basic truth.

Well, one thing was for sure: if he was going to have friends in the glee club, it definitely looked like he'd have to rethink his point of view on gay people. Between having them as friends and the Bully Whips, Rory suspected that they wouldn't look too kindly on his discomfort. All right, fine... He could do this. He was used to reaching out and being friendly. How hard could it possibly be?

* * *

A week later, Rory was almost dizzy. Making friends was a little harder than he thought it'd be.

Especially when some of these people seemed to be a little... odd.

First, there was Finn Hudson. Apparently, there were two glee clubs at McKinley, and Brittany's Santana was in the other one. Finn had asked him to... keep an eye on the two, make sure that his own club didn't lose any more members or set lists to the "enemy." Oddly enough, Rory was a little excited about this; cloak-and-dagger James Bond stuff didn't come into people's lives every day. It was certainly a change from the norm, and again, he'd always loved the spy fantasy.

Then there was Santana herself. He thought Brianna could be scary. But then, she was basically a sweetheart - just with a spirit of steel underneath. Santana, on the other hand... there was more than one priest back in Ireland who would've eagerly declared her possessed, just to get her locked away safely somewhere. She wasn't always overtly nasty, granted, but there was this light of shrewdness in her eyes that unsettled him greatly, especially when it was directed at him.

She'd buttonholed him completely out of the blue in the halls one day, and the first words out of her mouth were, "So, you have a little thing for Brittany, huh?" Somehow, this turned into him promising to push an on-the-fence Brittany towards quitting New Directions for Santana's group. On one hand, a lack of Brittany would certainly make New Directions less appealing. Plus, he'd made a promise to Finn. On the other hand, Santana had said she would "make it worth his while," pressing a twenty dollar bill into his hand, with talk of more "from a generous source." Then there was her hints that Brittany "would appreciate" him "looking out for her best interests," and that not doing so would break his whole leprechaun scheme. That was certainly persuasive.

Oh, and so was "cross me, little man, and I'll kick your balls all the way back to Ireland." She was even _smiling_ when she said that. Now _that_ was scary.

Then came the inevitable blow-up when Brittany defected to the rival group. There'd been quite a row, but nothing too explosive; Dave especially had been instrumental in keeping order. From what he could tell, Dave was as new as Rory was, so he supposed that it helped keep his objectivity.

As Rory slipped through the halls towards the choir room, he felt a little... naked without a member of the Bully Whips around. He'd become accustomed to their escorts over the past weeks, not to mention appreciative; his concerns about being harassed by jocks or xenophobes turned out to be completely unfounded, thanks to them. But at the moment, most of them were headed for the auditorium to listen to the other glee club give their first performance, and Rory had gotten a little lost in the shuffle. Not that he particularly minded; it was half an hour past dismissal, and the halls were empty...

"I think you were right all along, Puck."

Fine, not completely empty. Dave's voice emanated from around the corner. Rory paused, not entirely sure what he should do. Go around the corner and announce his presence? That would interrupt what already sounded like a heavy conversation, just from Dave's tone. Go the other way? He would be heading _away_ from where he wanted to go, the auditorium. Stop and wait? It felt wrong to be eavesdropping. In his indecision, his feet refused to move, and Dave continued talking, so in a sense, the decision was already made.

"She's been visiting Shelby and Beth lately..."

"I know, I have too." That indeed was Puck, he of the weird hair. "But not at the same time as Quinn; I didn't want to start anything."

"Yeah, well, Quinn's starting something. I'm not sure what, but from what I've seen, she's doing _something_ with her visits other than just look after Beth."

"Christ... Dave, you gotta make sure she's not doing something stupid."

"How? I mean, you're the one with access..."

"Yeah, but..." There was a sigh. "I don't want to cut down Quinn to Shelby, or let her know that something's up. Quinn's just messed up; she doesn't deserve to lose visits with Beth. Besides, I'm not sure I trust myself to do much while I'm there without looking weird. Or doing something stupid myself."

"Huh?"

"I mean, Lauren's hot, right? So I just keep thinking about her, and especially what she'll do to me if I do what I keep thinking about doing when I'm with Shelby..."

"Oooookay." Dave sounded as confused as Rory was at that moment. "So your point is, you want me to do something. But how am I gonna get close to Shelby to figure out what Quinn's doing?"

"She still has some stuff she hasn't unpacked from her move from New York. She needs some help carrying the heavier things. I've volunteered you."

"Gee, thanks. But yeah, I guess that'll do it. I overheard Quinn trying to find the number for CPS. I'll see if she's done something at Shelby's that might..."

"Uh... hi?" Rory jumped at the new sound. One of the other glee club girls - Tanya? No, Tina - stood behind him, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "What's the matter?"

"Oh! I, uh... I'm trying to find the auditorium..." The lie sounded especially lame to Rory's ears, but Tina seemed to believe him.

"Oh, it's this way. Come on." She led him around the corner, where Dave and Puck stood; they looked casual - too casual to actually _be_ casual. "Hi, guys. What do you think of this Troubletones thing?"

Puck shrugged. "I dunno. Think they can really be any good with Sugar in it?"

"Well, they do have three of our singers, and we know _they're _good," Dave remarked as the group made their way down the hall. They seemed to have almost forgotten Rory trailing behind, much to his relief. "I also heard that they have some other new members..."

Tina frowned. "Who else could they have gotten who's not already with us?"

"Dunno. I heard some names, but I didn't recognize them."

"We'll find out in a second." Tina nodded down the hall; the other members of New Directions were filing into the auditorium, with looks ranging from curious to bored to confused. Rory could relate that last emotion the most.

In a few moments, New Directions were sitting and staring at a curtained stage. A few other scattered students were seated here and there amongst them. Rory was between Mercedes and Kurt, and behind Mr. Schuester. He still wasn't quite sure what he was doing there, seeing as how he wasn't even a member of the glee club yet, but perhaps his presence was an indication that he was already starting to make up his mind, despite the weirdness...

The house lights went down, and the curtain rose. Orchestral-style music with a rap backbeat blasted from the speakers as a group of women posed in statue stillness amongst the shadows. The stage lights went up; the six of them were all dressed in the American urban chic Brianna swooned for, much to his and Seamus' consternation. Santana was in the center; she stepped forward and began to sing:

_Everything is everything, what is meant to be, will be..._  
_After winter, must come spring..._  
_Change, it comes eventually..._

One of the girls next to her, a blonde Rory didn't recognize, now advanced, her voice raised high:

_I wrote these words for everyone who struggles in their youth_...  
_Who won't accept deception in- instead of what is truth..._

He felt Mercedes shift uncomfortably next to him. Kurt muttered something under his breath. Then a hefty girl with long red hair picked up the lyrics.

_It seems we lose the game... before we even start to play..._  
_Who made these rules?_

"Holy...!" That was Finn, a few seats to the right. There was similar surprised rumbling amongst the other New Direction members. Rory didn't know exactly what it meant, but apparently this was not a person they expected to have that kind of voice._  
_

_Everything is everything, everything is everything, everything is everything..._  
_After winter must come spring, everything is everything..._

Rory looked about him; the looks of dismay on many of his fellow audience members were growing. Then another blonde stepped forward; this one he recognized as Sugar. Her looks had caught his eye first (he always did have a thing for blondes), then her name caught his mind. As the other members danced behind her, her voice broke out, but not in song.

_I philosophy,_  
_Possibly speak tongues_...  
_Beat drum,_  
_Abyssinian, street Baptist..._

"Rapping," he heard Mr. Schuester mutter. "Why didn't I think of that?" Rory had no idea what he meant, but Sugar was pretty good; she kept to the hip-hop beat reasonably well, the rhymes tripping off her tongue as if she'd written them herself.

_You can't match this rapper slash actress..._  
_More powerful than two Cleopatras..._  
_Bomb graffiti on the tomb of Nefertiti..._  
_MCs ain't ready to take it to the Serengeti..._

Sugar spat out line after line; he didn't know the song, but she seemed to be doing well enough to further deepen the frowns around him. Finally, her part ended; she faded back into the background as Santana, Brittany, and the other girls' voices raised once more, their harmonies writhing smoothly about each other like snakes.

_Everything is everything, everything is everything, everything is everything..._  
_After winter must come spring, everything is everything..._

"This isn't good," someone nearby muttered. Nothing more needed to be said, apparently.

* * *

"I know leprechauns don't exist."

Rory groaned inwardly as the memory echoed in his brain. He was so close... So close! But now, all that effort... wasted!

"I'm sorry." And Brittany actually _did_ look sorry. "But I hope I'll see you at the GSA meeting?"

So there he was, sitting in a hard and decidedly un-ergonomic plastic chair, his beliefs and comfort level being tested once more as he listened to discussions about misconceptions about transsexuality (an even more severe test; Rory had felt like crossing his legs multiple times). Was it because he wanted to fit in better with his potential new glee club friends? Because he was starting to get over his discomfort, and/or wanted to? Because he still bore some spark of hope, no matter how tiny, of getting with Brittany? (This last carried risks; Santana had looked ready to rip him a new one earlier when Brittany calmed her down with just a few words: "That isn't you anymore, is it?" It reminded Rory a lot of how Dave had calmed down Kurt earlier.)

At least he wasn't the only one a little uncomfortable. So was the curly haired bloke whose name he couldn't quite remember; at least, it sure seemed he was, the way he kind of flinched whenever Kurt and Dave were openly affectionate. This was odd, considering that he was one of the founders of this group, but at least he was making an effort. Perhaps Rory himself could make the same effort.

About three quarters through the meeting, Dave rose, muttering something Rory didn't quite catch. Kurt pecked him on the cheek, said "I'll be there soon," and watched as Dave scurried from the room. He then sat down and continued as if nothing had happened.

A little while later, the meeting concluded. Kurt immediately jumped to his feet and hurried away, leaving the curly haired guy to clean up. Before Rory could react, Brittany grabbed his hand (her skin oh God so soft). "Come on!" she squealed, yanking him towards the door.

"Wh-what? Where are we going?"

"To watch Dave try out! Hurry up, we don't want to be late!" Normally, he would've asked a few more questions, like "why," but that _skin_... He couldn't think; he just let her guide him.

The venue, it turned out, was a skating rink a short drive away. By the time Brittany pulled him into a seating position rinkside next to Kurt, Rory's brain had finally managed to process the scene: a largish group of guys on the ice, bulky with protective gear, carrying hockey sticks. One of them was Dave; he looked up and caught eye contact with the three of them. He beamed, giving a quick, hearty wave to them. Rory waved back, a little half-heartedly (he still wasn't quite sure what he was doing there). Kurt and Brittany, on the other hand, returned the gesture with broad, enthusiastic strokes that used their whole arms.

A middle aged man blew a whistle. He was paunchy, a little wilted, with half-lidded eyes that seemed almost sleepy. But the way he skated on the ice towards the group of teenagers, even Rory, who knew little about this sport, could tell he was an expert. "All right, line up! We'll take the new guys first!" He tossed a puck onto the ice.

"That's Coach Williamson," Kurt said in a low voice. "McKinley just hired him. His last team won three state championships back in Illinois. If anyone can get the hockey team off the bottom rung of the ladder, it's him."

Rory wondered for a moment how Kurt knew all this; he didn't seem like the type to keep up with sports, let alone high school sports. But one look at the gaze Kurt gave to Dave on the ice answered the question very quickly.

For the next twenty minutes, Rory watched as hopeful after hopeful went out onto center ice. He had very little idea of what he was seeing or whether they were any good or not, but Kurt had his own muttered opinions. "Not bad... Kind of unpolished, though." "Hmph, that shot was sloppy. He'll never make it." "God, he skates like a buffalo. How is he going to get any sort of speed going with form like that?" At some points, Rory wasn't even sure whether Kurt even remembered that he and Brittany were present; it was almost more monologue than information giving.

Finally, it was Dave's turn. This time, even Rory's completely untrained eye could see that he was different from the others who'd come before. Where they were a little raw, a little uncertain, Dave skated like he was born on the ice. His shots were confident, his maneuvering practiced. Rory took a glance at the coach, who was making notes on a clipboard and nodding. He then glanced at his right to Kurt; the boy was practically _glowing_.

"He's in," Kurt said hoarsely. "He is _so_ in." Brittany squealed. Rory couldn't find any reason to disagree.

Rory looked to the existing team members, huddled in the stands. It suddenly struck him why a couple of them looked so familiar: it was their hair. They were the same guys who'd glared at him and Dave in the halls on his first day. Those glares were still there, but this time, they were focused on Dave. And...

Rory swallowed. The dislike - hatred? - seemed to pour off of them like steam. This was the kind of thing he still saw occasionally in Ireland, when the wrong people happened to step into the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time... the kind of thing that sometimes, just sometimes, still ended with violence. Didn't anyone else see it? Dave didn't, the coach didn't, Kurt didn't; they were all in their own little worlds, especially when the coach gave Dave a firm nod that broke a smile across the large bloke's face and sent a squeal from Kurt's throat.

Even days afterward, when Finn and Dave gave him the final push to audition for the Glee Club, when he made it in, when he was being congratulated by the group, he felt the urge to tell Dave to be careful, to watch his back around his new teammates.

But he didn't. For one thing, he'd been raised to Mind His Own Business. For another, he wasn't _sure_ the looks meant anything. He'd learned by now that things were different here than they were back home. For yet another, even if it did mean trouble, who knew if it would be all that serious? Dave seemed like the kind of guy who could take care of himself. And if it did come to nothing, he would look like a total ass. Everyone involved was still a stranger to him; what did he know about their lives or how their minds worked?

All pretty justifications in his mind, of course, but it mostly came down to the first. Mind Your Own Business. In the area he grew up in, it was the safe thing, the sane thing.

But America was not where he grew up.

He would come to remember that, and wonder, afterward...

**AN: Slightly revised to take some feedback into account.**

**Next: An episode y'all _might_ be a _little_ familiar with...**


	8. The First Time 1: Invitation

"Yes, Rachel, I've been paying attention to your acting choices. No, Rachel, I _gave_ you all my notes. Seriously, you have read them, haven't you?"

Dave shook his head in amusement as he finished changing the sheets on Artie's bed. This was the third call from Rachel about _West Side Story_ (that he knew of) this week. It was as though she thought of Artie as the spinning millstone on which to grind her performance into a keen razor's edge, while Artie was just tired of the spinning.

"No, I didn't know you're a virgin; thanks so much for sharing that. What? How can you relate to the character if...? It's called _acting_, Rach."

Dave had thought that hearing about McKinley drama from Kurt was exhausting. But now he was actually in the middle of it: spying on Quinn for Puck (an act both morally dubious and enlightening in a disturbing way - disturbing enough to make him quite sure that Puck had every reason to worry); acting in a play with not one, but two divas (though he found Mercedes a little easier to work with - not that she was any less controlling or demanding than Rachel when she was at her worst); a class president race involving his boyfriend that was bringing all sorts of tensions to light... Dave was starting to wonder if there was something in the water in Lima.

"Yes, I'll discuss it with you tomorrow. Yes, I promise. I have to go now, Rach. I have to... I have to go! Yes. Yes, I will. Yes. _Goodbye_, Rachel!" Artie turned off his cell phone with a sigh. "Christ, that girl..."

"I gotta say, you handle her pretty well," Dave remarked. "Hell, you've been herding all of us like a master sheepdog."

Artie laughed. "I'll take that in the spirit in which it was intended. But yeah, compared to the Bully Whips, a musical's no problem."

"Even with Rachel and Mercedes?"

"Okay, they're a little stickier. But seriously, if there's one thing being pushed around all the time - literally and figuratively - has taught me, it's that you have to push back once in a while. Not let others sweep you up and tell you where to go all the time." Artie fixed a thoughtful look on Dave that made him a little uncomfortable. "There are plenty of people out there a lot more forceful than me. Usually, they're bullies, but not all the time. The key is knowing when and how to stand up for yourself."

"Uh huh..." Dave wasn't sure why he found himself as speechless as he was, but he was.

"I get that some people don't like confrontation. But sometimes those people can get so caught up in avoiding it that they lose sight of themselves and what they want." There was a long pause. Artie shrugged. "But what do I know?" He glanced at Dave with that thoughtful look again. "Seriously, man, you've been a big help around here. Thanks."

"Hey, it's the least I can do for feeding me and giving me a pull-out."

"You're a good guy. We're buds now. And you know buds can talk about anything, right?"

Dave frowned in puzzlement, wondering exactly what Artie knew... or thought he knew. He certainly couldn't think of anything off the top of his head, and if Artie was being circumspect, there really wasn't a way to ask. That much he knew for sure from his months of living with the guy. He shook his head; he'd figure it out some other time. "Yeah. Sure. I know that."

"Cool. Now sweep me into your arms and take me to bed, you big man, you."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Dude."

"What? I'm secure in my masculinity."

* * *

"Why don't we just do it?"

Dave looked up from his book across the dining room table. Kurt was sitting on the other side, surrounded by the paper detritus of two different homework subjects, frowning at him with a comically serious glare.

His mind was screaming _Danger! Danger! _Cautiously, he sipped at his Coke and took a moment to steel himself (and to make absolutely sure that these were safe words to say) before speaking. "Do... what?"

"Have sex."

Suddenly, Dave was very glad he'd finished his drink, or Kurt would be dripping with soda at this moment. He jumped and looked wildly about. No, Burt Hummel was not going to magically appear around the corner with an axe. He was out at a meeting with his Congressional campaign staff. He forced himself to relax. "What... Uh, what brought this on?"

Kurt sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. God, don't mind me, Dave; with everything that's going on with senior year and the musical and glee club and two political campaigns... I guess I'm just a little tightly wound right now."

"And you think sex will loosen you up?"

"Well, when you put it that way..." Kurt chuckled. "I don't know. I just... I want to relax..."

"There's more than one way to relax, Kurt. You could take up knitting. Or watch one of your chick flicks."

Kurt stuck his tongue out at Dave. "Quiet, you. That came out wrong. It's just that I'm a virgin... What? What's that grin for?"

Dave schooled his features back into neutrality. "Nothing! It's just that you're the second person in the glee club I've found out is a virgin in the past two days."

"Oh? Who's the... Never mind. My point is, I kind of feel like that I am - have been - so busy that life is passing me by. There's a major rite of passage that I've never undertaken. But now I have a boyfriend, whom I love very much..." Dave felt himself turning red as Kurt reached over and rubbed the back of his hand. "...and I thought... Why not now? Don't you ever feel the urge to get your freak on?"

"I'm a seventeen year old male. What do you think?" Dave's grin slipped a little. "Seriously, though, why now? It's not like we've even discussed this before."

"Exactly! That's the whole problem! With all the hormones flying around the choir room every freaking day, you can't help but wonder when you're the lone monk in the room!"

"Ahem."

"Fine, one of at least two monks, apparently. I'm sexually boring..."

"C'mon, Kurt, don't talk like that. I'm supposed to be the expert in self-deprecation around here. You just have more respect for sex than most people our age, and I think that's great. My dad had to drill it into my head for years so I'd come around. You believing that all on your lonesome is pretty special."

"Aw, you're sweet. But part of that is knowing when it's time, when you actually find someone you really think is special, and..." Kurt blushed. "And I think you're it. I really do."

Dave cleared his throat nervously. To say that there were a few conflicting impulses going through his mind would be like calling an F5 tornado a slight breeze. "Well, Kurt... I'm a virgin too..."

A sly smile Dave wasn't sure he liked came across Kurt's face. "Splendid." The word sounded _way_ too much like Coach Sylvester for Dave's liking. He recalled that Kurt had once been a Cheerio under her, and wondered if a little of her had rubbed off on Kurt somehow, and whether he should be calling for an exorcism or something.

"Uh, what I wanted to say was... I just want to make sure it's the right time for us..."

Kurt's smile began to fade. "You don't want...?" A guilty look came over him as soon as the words left his mouth, but Dave still nearly leaped out of his chair in his hurry to reassure.

"No, no! Not that! God, if Finn and your stepmom weren't due home any minute, I'd jump you right now, I swear!"

The sly smile returned. "Oh, really? Do go on."

Dave's blush deepened. "My point is... Um... What was my point again? Oh, yeah! Like I said, I think I feel the same way you do about sex. I mean, I sort of can't help it, with Dad drilling 'respect' into my head as soon as I hit puberty, even before he knew I was gay. Before we take that next step, I just want to make sure that we're... good together, y'know? That I've made up for everything I did to you..."

"Dave, you have! I keep telling you that!"

"I know, but... I worry. You know that."

"Do I ever."

"And you're the most patient guy on Earth for putting up with me. Just... think it over, okay, just for a little while? It's a huge step, and I want to make sure it's right. If you're sure that we're good, if you're _really_ sure, then I'll yank your clothes off with my teeth."

Kurt grinned giddily. "Oooh, thanks for the mental image!" He settled back into seriousness in a moment. "Okay, Dave. I will."

"Thanks." _Maybe_, Dave thought, _this will settle things once and for all_. He'd been seeing a Lima-based therapist recommended by Dr. Macey ever since the move; one of the most common topics had been his relationship with Kurt, and whether he was pushing things too much.

"I think that's up to Kurt," Dr. Taylor had said. "It should be up to him what he wants to do and when. I know you're afraid of hurting him again, but Kurt is his own person, and he knows best what he's ready for. Even if your fears come true, you can't protect him from his own mistakes. After all, that's what led to your falling out in the first place. My best advice to you is to continue to let him make his own decisions, and to trust him. That's it. Just... trust him."

"Trust..." Dave muttered.

"What?" Kurt asked.

"What...? Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself." He grimaced as he gestured towards the physics homework in front of him. "Science drives me fucking bonkers sometimes."

"Damn, and I thought I was the only one who could do that." Kurt smiled slyly, his hand once again snaking across the table to hold Dave's.

"Wow, you sure are serious about this sex thing, aren't you?" It wasn't the first thing Dave thought of saying. It certainly wasn't the tone he was thinking about either: low and rumbling and almost... seductive? Or at least a romantic retard's idea of "seductive," anyway. Dave was sure he was going to be embarrassed by the memory in a day or two. Right now, all he could feel was Kurt's hand on his.

"Serious as death, Mr. Karofsky. I hope sometime soon, I can show you just how ser-"

The front door creaked open. "Hey, we're home!" Finn shouted out.

Both boys immediately resumed their homework positions. By the time Finn and his mother entered the dining room, the only evidence that anything out of the ordinary had taken place was a faint blush lingering on both their cheeks. Not that either noticed, of course.

* * *

Artie shifted in his chair in discomfort. Like most young people, he had ideas of what adults were like, of the boundaries that lay between them and kids (and teenagers certainly were kids, or at least acted like it - he saw proof of _that_ every day). While he knew it wasn't true, his default image of an adult was of someone who had life figured out - who had confidence, drive, and deep, deep wisdom. Someone who didn't doubt themselves, who had everything figured out.

So seeing Coach Beiste, who certainly seemed to fit every single one of those qualities, looking so lost, so down on herself, so... vulnerable... Well, it couldn't help but put him off his game a little. That and the whole admission of virginity thing. He desperately hoped he wouldn't become the go-to guy for this kind of thing.

He didn't know a lot about Cooter Menkins (except that his name just screamed "good ol' Southern white boy"), but he did know (or thought he knew) Coach Beiste. And the look on her face as she sighed, "why would he be interested in someone like me?" That look he knew very well: that haunted, depressed, worn-down look that so often cursed the halls of McKinley, that only seemed to go away when it was replaced by terror whenever a Slushee cup appeared. He saw a lot less of it around lately, and he thought, hoped, that it was thanks to the Bully Whips.

Well, here was another client. Very different from their normal clientele, but who ever said the Bully Whips' mission was limited to students?

"Coach...?" he began tentatively. Beiste turned towards him. "I know I'm not exactly an expert on the whole love thing..." A flash of Tina flew into his mind then; he winced, tamping it back down. "But in my time with the Bully Whips, I think I've kinda learned something about how to deal about difficulties in life. And one thing I've definitely learned is that no one will stand up for you if you won't stand up for yourself."

Beiste frowned. "Isn't that the whole point of the Bully Whips?"

"To provide protection, yes. But we can't be everywhere at once, or follow people home or anything like that. I kind of think of the Bully Whips as a tool - a way to empower people so they won't need us." Artie cleared his throat. "If you like this guy, Coach, you need to approach him yourself. Be aggressive. Go for what you want."

"But I told you, I'm not..."

"You keep thinking like that, you'll be alone forever." It was blunt, a lot more so than Artie usually was, but that was another lesson of the Bully Whips: sometimes a little bluntness was needed to get through to some people. "Just because you can't recognize that you're a worthwhile person doesn't mean that you're not."

Beiste snorted. "I seem to remember you boys agreeing with me in that regard last year."

Artie winced. "I know. And I'm sorry, I really am. In a very real sense, we were bullying you then, and we were wrong." He took a breath to steady himself. "You're a good person, Coach. All of us - all the guys - we respect you, and not just because you made us champions. Look, you tell us all the time to give 100%. You need to do that too. If we acted the way you are with Mr. Menkins, you think we would've ever made it to the finals? Or gotten even close? And if it doesn't work out..." He paused. "There's another thing I learned from the Bully Whips: never settle."

"For what?"

"Whatever. Your job, your girlfriend, your life. Everyone has the right to make their lives better." Artie backed his wheelchair up. "I know I can't tell you what to do, and you don't have to listen to me either. Just... think about it. And know that I - that a lot of folks - think you're worth a lot. Never settle."

He wheeled himself into the wings and vanished into the darkness. Shannon Beiste watched him go, stared at where he'd gone, long after Dave picked him up for the drive home. It wasn't that one discussion with one kid would change years of mental habits, of lessons learned the hard way, but... maybe it was enough to push open the door, just a crack.

"Never settle..." she muttered thoughtfully.

* * *

"You have _never_ been to a gay bar before?"

Dave chuckled. "You make it sound like I just admitted to mass murder or something."

"It's just as bad." Sebastian took only the briefest sips of his coffee before pushing on. "Obviously, this is something we have to fix. You'd be a big hit at this one place I go to..."

"C'mon, Sebastian, I don't need to get hit on. I have a boyfriend..."

"I know, I know; it's not like you don't spend hour upon hour talking about him. But there are other gay men out there besides you, me, and Kurt. It would do you a world of good to start meeting a few."

"Maybe," Dave said noncommittally. "I'm guessing you have one in mind to drag me to?"

"I do!" came the wide, smiling reply. "In fact, it's right here in Lima. It's called Scandals, and I think a bear cub like you would fit right in there."

"Bear cu-? Never mind. I just don't know about this. Like I said, I'm taken, and I try not to drink a lot..."

"It's not just casual sex and beer, Dave... Not that there's anything wrong with either." He smiled wickedly, an expression that couldn't help but make Dave the slightest bit uncomfortable, although he would never have been able to say why or how if questioned. "There's pool, and karaoke, and... well, just being sociable. So how about it? You, me, and Scandals next week?"

"Think Kurt could come along?" The question burst out of Dave before he could fully process it, but now that the words were out... well, he had no reason to take them back. The thought of doing this without Kurt frankly scared him a little. Not only would he be moral support, but the idea of going to a gay bar without him, and him finding out later...

Okay, that sounded a little codependent. He made a mental note to mention this to Dr. Taylor at their next session. Still, the thought haunted him, which he knew wasn't particularly healthy either. Kurt had made it very clear with his demand that they be equals. But Kurt had never hurt him the way he had done to Kurt, had he? On the other hand, he had to admit that he had to get over this if he and Kurt were going to get anywhere. _Trust_. That's what it came down to, didn't it? Trust.

Sebastian's lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. But Dave knew that's because he wasn't paying attention. As his mind readjusted, actual words started issuing from his friend across the table. "... feel uncomfortable. Like I'm a third wheel."

Dave took a moment to fill in the blanks left behind by his navel-gazing, then shook his head. "You won't be, Seb. We're all going out for a night on the town as friends. That's all."

"Right... That's all."

"I promise we won't leave you behind to make out or anything," Dave continued, not noticing the odd, tight tone in Sebastian's voice. "Besides, I don't think Kurt's ever been to a gay bar either, and he could use the experience just as much as me, for the same reasons. I think we'd have a lot more fun with all three of us anyway." Sebastian muttered something under his breath. "What?"

"Nothing." He sighed. "You won't take 'no' for an answer, will you?"

Dave sighed. "Look, I've been honest with you about me and Kurt... and what I did to him, right? I'd just feel more comfortable."

"Gotta tell you, Dave, it's a little fucked up. You shouldn't have to keep on proving yourself."

"Maybe, yeah, but it's getting less fucked up every day, and I'd like to keep that pattern going. I just need some time to get comfortable with the way things are... and with myself. So if you don't mind... I'd really appreciate it if I could invite Kurt."

There was a long pause. Finally, Sebastian sighed in an exaggeratedly put-out way. "_Fine_, I suppose. Friend of yours is a friend of mine. So how about Wednesday or Thursday? I can get out of classes early to..."

Dave shook his head. "Sorry, no go. Wednesday's hockey practice, and Thursday's one of our last rehearsals for _West Side Story_."

"Friday, then." Sebastian broke out into a wide grin. "Perfect night for it."

"Why's that?"

He waggled his eyebrows. "Oh, you'll see."

Dave raised an eyebrow, but left it at that. After all, it wouldn't be an unpleasant surprise, whatever it was; he trusted Sebastian that much, at least.

* * *

"Kurt, don't."

Kurt blinked up innocently at his boyfriend. "What? I was just... readjusting Rachel's poster. Really, she should take a little care in making sure she hangs it up straight..."

"Don't." Dave laid two comforting hands on each of Kurt's shoulders. _Very warm hands_, Kurt's mind remotely noted. "This has gotta stop, if only for your sake. You're going to drive yourself insane, and while I'd visit you at the asylum every day, I don't think you'd like the dress code there."

"What, do you not think I could rock the straitjackets?"

"One color, dude. Off-white."

"Fine, point taken." Kurt sighed. "I just... she..."

"I know, okay? But you know what she's like. Hell, _I _know what she's like, and I've only been here a few months."

"Yeah. I guess I just hoped..."

"It's your futures and dreams on the line. I think it's making you both a little crazy. If she's really your friend, she'll come around. Besides, do you think what she's doing is gonna be any worse than what some people will try to do to you once you actually get into show business?"

"Very true. But then I'll have a big handsome muscular boyfriend to punch their lights out."

"From what I've seen around here, the women will be the bigger problem, and I ain't touching them."

Kurt laughed. "My, Dave, you're on a roll today!" He shook his head. "God, I didn't realize how much I needed to laugh." He sighed and looked at Rachel's poster. "You're right. I was being a little crazy. I think... I'm calmer now." He turned back to Dave. "You know what? I'm going to do what I need to do. Rachel can do what she thinks she needs to do. She hasn't done anything direct to interfere with me, so why should I care?"

Dave nodded. "There you go."

"But if she does..."

Dave hoped - _prayed_ - that the predatory look that came over Kurt's face in that moment was a joke. He was pretty sure that it was. Kind of sure. "Well, if the two of you really are friends, you'll work it out."

"I suppose you're right." Kurt cocked his head. "I thought you said you sucked at the big gay mentor thing?"

Dave chuckled. "It's just me using my outsider's perspective."

"Because we at McKinley are insane?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. It's true, though."

* * *

Quinn was feeling it all slip away from her.

Sure, she had the Troubletones, and she was actually seeing more of Beth, but she was no closer to getting custody back than she was when everything started.

Now, Quinn definitely wasn't stupid. People often forgot about her Ivy League ambitions, and her maintenance of a stellar GPA even with all her extracurriculars (though part of it was "thanks" to Coach Sylvester, who made sure her Cheerios had good grades, often via questionable methods she claimed she learned in East Germany). So it was pretty simple to see that _someone_ was thwarting her plans.

Normally, that would've sounded a little paranoid, even to her. But there was no denying that _something_ was inhibiting her progress. Not to mention the feeling that she was being watched - not necessarily literally, but at least... being looked after.

Though she knew he had no direct involvement (mostly due to her watching him like a hawk), this whole situation stank of _Puckerman_. Bastard was trying to ruin her life... _again_. But no... she couldn't think like that. Not when Beth...

Fine, then. If Puck wanted to play a game, she'd play. No holds barred. Gloves were officially off. She'd figure out who her shadow was. She'd deal with that person. She _would_ have her daughter back, by _whatever_ means necessary.

* * *

"Would you stop that, please?"

"Stop what?"

"Drumming your fingers."

"Uh, Kurt, that's you."

Kurt looked down at his hand in surprise; it was indeed tapping a rapid pulse on the armrest of the passenger side door. "Oops. Sorry."

"C'mon, don't be nervous. This'll be fun. I'm sure whatever this place is like, you'll fit right in. 'Cause when you're as hot as you are, guys will forgive _anything._"

Kurt chuckled. "Thank you." He didn't tell Dave that he wasn't nervous for the reasons he thought. Just the idea of being in close quarters with Sebastian Smythe was making his stomach churn, though he was no closer than before to figuring out _why_. It was just instinct - and if his father and his life had taught him anything, it was to trust his instincts. Still, he had to admit that he was intrigued by the infamous gay bar scene; besides, if his instincts were right, the last thing he wanted to do was to leave Dave to face whatever it was he feared alone.

Scandals was on the edge of Lima, where suburbia ended three blocks back, and the bad side of town was just giving way to rural outskirts. _I suppose no one wanted the gay bar to be nearby, not even the poor,_ Kurt thought wryly. Dave's car ground to a stop in a three-quarters full parking lot dotted with the occasional weed peeking out through cracks in the asphalt.

"Got your ID?" Dave asked.

Besides Sebastian, this was the part of the evening that made Kurt the most nervous. He was actually surprised at how blase Dave was over the whole thing. "I got mine while I was at Dalton," he'd said, flashing a driver's license that proclaimed him to be 21. That too surprised Kurt - but then, he had to remind himself, all _boy's_ school.

"I should have it... Aha! Here it is." He pulled out his own, and regarded his picture, taken a few days previous on Sebastian's digital camera. He'd grown up a lot the past couple of years; a comparison of photos and the looks his dad gave him occasionally told that story pretty well. Of course, having lived those years, he'd never noticed - it just sort of... snuck up on him. Still, looking down at his face smiling back at him from the flat shiny plastic, he couldn't help thinking that he _still_ looked too much like a little boy to be of age.

"Do you see Sebastian? He said he'd meet... Oh, there he is! Hey! Seb!" Dave waved with both of his arms, and Kurt turned. Sebastian was walking towards them in the kind of preppy wealthy douchebag outfit he'd expected. He had to actively tamp down the hostile thoughts as Warbler and ex-Warbler gave each other a hearty, friendly hug.

"Hello, Dave. Kurt." Sebastian gave a quick nod with a lack of further acknowledgment or small talk that frankly relieved Kurt. "So, you two ready to penetrate the big gay bar scene?"

Dave snickered. "You used 'penetrate' on purpose, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, and I'm not ashamed. C'mon." The bouncer at the door seemed to know Sebastian, giving him a nod and not even bothering to ask for his ID. He did, however, ask Dave and Kurt, despite Sebastian's smooth and charming "Come on, Tate, they're with me."

"Sorry, but they're newbies, and rules are rules." Fortunately, the fakes seemed to pass muster; a halfhearted examination and a nod were all that followed. "Have a good time."

And then the three of them stepped into another world.

Kurt had caught a few episodes of _Queer as Folk_ on cable occasionally (although it was a little too soap opera-ish and needlessly sexually provocative for his tastes), so he had certain... expectations of what he'd find once he stepped into Scandals. What first struck him was the almost dizzying variety of men there: different heights, weights, body types, races, ages, and yes, fashion senses. The air bore the slightest haze; he wasn't quite sure what it was, since smoking was banned. Perhaps some kind of special effect mist? Aerosolized testosterone?

The next thing he noticed was just how... mundane it all looked. He didn't think he expected the bass pumping neon wonderland of television, but he would've thought that any self-respecting gathering place for gay men would've at _least_ given some thought to the paint job. But then, that brought him back to variety. Being (almost) all alone as the sole representative of a demographic in a small town tended to put blinders on, even with easy worldwide media. That just proved how stifling Lima was - and inflamed Kurt's desire to take NYADA by storm.

The final thing he noticed (though it had been assaulting his ears the moment he entered) was the spotlit stage in the back, where a portly gentleman was belting out "Harper Valley PTA" with admirable enthusiasm.

Sebastian grinned, sweeping his arms like a game show host.

"Welcome to Karaoke Night!"

**AN: I think we'll stop here, since the plot-heavy stuff is _really_ getting into motion (again, just like canon). Thanks to everyone who's keeping up. I can't believe "A World Apart" is still getting so many readers. Hope you new additions are enjoying this too!  
**

**Oh, and for the next chapter: let's make one thing very clear from the outset: _I cannot write decent smut to save my life_. Reread that sentence if you must. Any attempts would sound like Allison Janney's character in _Ten Things I Hate About You. _Also, look at the rating for this 'fic. Adjust your expectations accordingly.**

**Thank you. :)**


	9. The First Time 2: You're All That I Want

**AN: Since it's been a while (sorry for both the delay and any rough points in this chapter; I just felt like I had to get it _done_ and move things forward), and this is "The First Time," I suggest you reacquaint yourself with my note at the end of the previous chapter. Absorb it. Embrace it. Now you'll be less disappointed. :D  
**

**This is a long one (to make up for my time delay; once I got back into it, the writing came along a lot easier), so let's get to it:  
**

Kurt was fastidious in many ways: in his dress (of course), in his eating and study habits, and on and on. One of those ways that didn't come up a lot was in language. He liked to think of himself as a _connoisseur_ of the spoken tongue; that was, after all, one major reason he took up, and excelled in, French. It had an elegance and style that he himself strove for in all aspects of his life.

While Japanese was hardly his forte, he respected the language (and indeed, respected most languages, though he still wasn't sure about the whole Esperanto thing) enough to pronounce its borrowed words properly.

Thus, he pronounced it kah-rah-oh-kay, with a little roll of the tongue for the "r". The Japanese deserved that much respect, didn't they?

So every time Sebastian said "carry-oh-key," it was, to Kurt, like he was dragging a rake across a chalkboard. Fine, it was the accepted English pronunciation, but still! If he didn't know better, he'd swear the guy was doing it on purpose.

Still, the bar's atmosphere was working on him; he had to admit that this wasn't a bad place, this Scandals. There was an air of effortless, relaxed camaraderie he hadn't felt since Dalton (and even there the conformity tended to stifle its effect), despite the differences between individuals. He supposed there was something to be said for immersing one's self with "your own people," even for a little while, if only for the sense of understanding.

In fact, the worst thing Kurt could say about Scandals so far is that its owner had a mild obsession with the Eighties - at least, that's what he assumed from the contents of the karaoke book. Sure, there were standard contemporary hits, but would it have _killed_ him to include a little more Gaga to go with the Springsteen and Blondie?

The conversation was flowing easily between Dave and Sebastian as the latter regaled the former with stories of the other Scandals regulars that Kurt had the odd feeling weren't complete. Dave laughed in all the right places and asked about the Warblers (though Kurt had the not-so-odd feeling that he asked that every time the two met). A stab of jealousy lanced through Kurt, but he immediately suppressed it with annoyance. In a sense, Sebastian was Dave's lifeline to a group and a place he missed so badly it hurt. With the additional fact that Sebastian was currently part of that selfsame world, no wonder the two got along so well. And Sebastian certainly hadn't done or said anything that showed Kurt he was anything but a well-meaning friend...

So there it was again. That irrational hatred. No, not so irrational; Kurt felt it so deeply, so intensely, that he knew that he had to be getting it from _somewhere_. Normally this would be a problem he'd be talking over with his father or Dave, the two men in his life who knew how he ticked most intimately. But he was uncomfortable discussing this with his dad (it made him feel petty and foolish to have so little explanation for his own feelings), and he _definitely_ wouldn't be telling any of this to Dave before he had something more substantial than "I hate your friend and I have no idea why."

So there he was, sitting (pointedly) between the two in the corner booth, listening politely as they traded banter, observations ("Ooh, he's hot." "Really? I like them a little less hairy myself."), and tales of recent Warbler yore ("Did you hear who Trent's been trying to work up the nerve to ask out? I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes..."). Kurt even interjected his own thoughts occasionally ("Frankly, even a drag queen should have better taste than _that_."), thoughts which Dave listened to intently, as though getting the Gospels at Mount Ararat or whatever, and Sebastian paid attention to with at minimum well-feigned polite interest.

Kurt sipped at his glass of increasingly watery Diet Coke. He thanked his lucky stars once more that he was Dave's designated driver; he had a feeling that he'd want his wits about him tonight. So far, Dave wasn't nearly as smashed as he was during the infamous RBHPTE; not having a guilty secret and deep, simmering resentment did a lot for his self-control. Still, it was obvious he was at least pleasantly buzzed; he was a _lot_ more handsy with Kurt than he usually was in public. Whether it was the alcohol, the gay atmosphere, or some combination thereof... Kurt frankly couldn't care less. He was too busy enjoying it (and tossing the occasional smug look in Sebastian's direction; not deliberately, of course, but he had the theory that Sebastian was less than impressed with Kurt's sex appeal).

Sebastian, for his part, didn't seem to care or notice (just one reason why Kurt found himself doubting his own suspicion and hatred). He slammed his now empty glass onto the table. "Want another round?" he asked. "This one's on me."

Dave swished his remaining sliver of beer around in his own glass. "Sure, why not. Another one of these."

"Great. Kurt, you mind picking it up?" He handed Kurt a twenty.

Kurt frowned for a moment. There was _something_ going on here, but what? And could he weasel without tipping his hand or looking like an idiot? _Ah, whatever; it'll only be a couple of minutes. How much trouble could he possibly cause in a couple of minutes? _"Sure. I'll be right back." Dave scooted out of the booth to let Kurt pass; Kurt made a point of giving him a kiss as he squeezed by.

And so Kurt Hummel dove into the milling, gyrating mass of mostly male humanity. He got at least a couple of looks (and one brush of the hand that felt not quite accidental); it was flattering, really, putting a spring in his step and more stiffness into his spine. Of course he knew he was desirable to Dave, but having it confirmed in the general gay public did a lot to confirm that it was more than one (undeniably attractive) guy's opinion. By the time Kurt sidled up to the bar, he was feeling better than he had in ages. And to think he'd been reluctant to go on this little excursion! Even with that smug rodent Sebastian around, the evening was turning out to be more than enjoyable. Hell, maybe there'd be even more pleasant surprises before the night was over...

"Another beer, please." The voice was raised over the tumult of drunk off-key voices and a dozen muted conversational buzzes. Even at that volume, it immediately struck a gong of familiarity in Kurt's mind. His eyes widened as his mind made the connection.

_No. Could it really be...?_ He turned towards his right. The figure sitting nearby was hunched over the bar, a baseball cap pulled over his eyes, and he was definitely dressed down from his usual style, in ratty jeans and a faded black overcoat, but the nest of wild, curly hair that cascaded from under the cap was unmistakable.

"Blaine?!"

Blaine Anderson nearly jumped in his seat as he coughed up beer. He turned. "Kurt?" He wiped the dribble off his chin with his cuff. "I... Uh..."

"Blaine, it is you!" He wasn't quite sure what emotion was peeking through in his voice: delight? Astonishment? Amusement? There were so many conflicting thoughts ricocheting every which way that it was hard to get a handle on which were dominant. "What are you doing here?"

"What, I can't go where I want just because I'm deeper in the closet than old Pokemon cards?"

"No, no! It's just... I'm surprised to see you in a place like this."

"You know, I get the feeling you don't think very highly of me." Blaine was grinning, but his eyes seemed strangely dull, and the smile was just twitchy enough to feel a little forced.

"That's not what I'm saying! This is... a huge step, and I wasn't sure you were ready for it yet. To tell you the truth, I'm glad I was wrong."

Blaine's face settled into a small smile that actually felt genuine. "Thanks. That actually means something coming from you. Being Mr. Out and Proud and all," he added hastily.

"So... do you come here often?" Kurt grinned and dramatically waggled his eyebrows, which actually elicited a laugh from Blaine.

"Nah. Actually, this is my first time. Lucky for me being on the football team practically forced to get a fa- an ID." His voice dropped with these last few words, widening Kurt's grin. "I was thinking about what you told me about needing to be educated. I mean, I sort of dismissed it before, but with the GSA and the Bully Whips... I guess... I guess I figured it was time to see what I was missing."

"And?"

"And..." He took a swig of beer and looked about him, at the colors and the lights, the voices and the laughter, the guys short and tall, husky and thin, fashionable and grungy, all tangled together in webs of conversation and, in some cases, limbs. "It's weird - I kinda feel... at home."

Kurt nodded. "I feel the same way. It's especially good for you to see that you have a place where you can be yourself, and that yourself... isn't a bad person to be."

"Yeah, well..." He paused for another drink. "Don't think this means I'm gonna come out. You and I both know I wouldn't survive ten minutes at McKinley if I did that."

"I'm not sure I agree. You have friends..."

"What, you mean the team? You're fucking joking, right? Even Chris, I'm not sure if..." He shook his head. "Or do you mean the Bully Whips and the GSA? They tolerate me, sure, but they sure as hell don't like me. They haven't forgotten what I did." His next sentence was almost a whisper that Kurt only barely heard over the tumult of the crowds around them. "I haven't."

"Blaine..."

"I just want to survive high school, you know? Less than one lousy year. Once I'm at Yale, then maybe I can think about coming out, but right now?" He shook his head, almost violently. "No. No fucking way."

Kurt had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that coming out would be the furthest thing from Blaine's mind at Yale. He'd be too worried about his parents (Blaine said little about them, but Kurt remembered Roger Anderson from last year, and Blaine's general silence about them when talking about support systems was speech in of itself) and his potential career. Then he'd feel the pressure to get married, and then to have kids, and then... Kurt couldn't help but ache at the bleak picture that came to mind of Blaine's life after that point.

But at the same time, who was he to push? He felt bad enough for his impulsive suggestion at the Junior Prom. It was one of the biggest reasons why he never told his father, or anyone else, the full truth. Besides Dave, of course, but only because he was the only one he _knew_ would understand the reasons (and even then, Dave's dislike of Blaine and his actions had almost, _almost_ overridden that). Blaine had to come out on his own, when he was ready, or not at all. But his life under the "not at all"... How could it possibly be happy and meaningful?

"I spent almost three years at McKinley being normal." Blaine's quiet voice did what the raucous homosexuals around them could not: snap Kurt out of his thoughts. "I just want to finish that way. Is that so wrong?"

"No." Kurt swallowed. "No, it's not. I understand, Blaine, really, I do."

"You don't have to lie to me. We both know I'm a coward. At least I'm here. That's a point in my column, right?" He gestured at the loud colors and louder voices around them. "This is the kind of place that'll make my life worth living once I'm married and trying to get a random trick into the bathroom."

The note of self-loathing in Blaine's voice honestly shocked Kurt, sending a tremor of something resembling fear across his spine. Blaine Anderson had always given an aura of arrogance, of strength, of invincibility. He was on top, and he knew it - what's more, he'd always _be_ on top. Hearing such vulnerability and pain coming from him... It was foreign, like watching the Pope doing a striptease while singing "It's Raining Men" (even thinking about it made Kurt gag a little). He'd gotten glimpses of this strange attitude throughout the previous year, but now... The emotions were so strong, so raw, so naked... It made Kurt more than uncomfortable.

It made him afraid. For Blaine Anderson. The scourge of his existence, once.

Funny how life could go sometimes. The irony of him sympathizing so deeply with his former bully did not escape him. But if there was one thing that both he and Blaine had learned these past few months, it was that the other was an actual human being, with emotions and pasts and dreams and fears. That had to count for something, right?

Kurt turned over his words in his head, knowing that he had to choose carefully. "I think... I think you're selling yourself short." Blaine snorted. "I think if you allow yourself the possibility of being happy..."

"So lie to myself? That's been doing _such_ great things for me so far."

That tore it. "Blaine, I'm worried about you."

The other teen looked up with wide eyes that held half a dozen different emotions at once: shock, disbelief, something else that Kurt found hard to put a name to... "What? Why?"

"The way you're talking now... It's not healthy, and it's not you."

All at once, the emotion shut down again. Blaine's eyes returned to his drink. "How would you know what 'I' really am? I'm not even sure I know."

"That's why you're here, isn't it? To find out? I think... you should take the time you spend here seriously. Remember how you feel when you're here. Then maybe things will fall into place."

Blaine didn't respond, or even move. He continued staring into his glass for a long minute. Kurt waited patiently. Finally: "Maybe." He chuckled bitterly, sipping at his beer. "Life's a funny, cruel bitch. Maybe it'll make things a little easier on me."

Less than a year ago, Kurt would've laughed hearing anything resembling those words from Blaine Anderson. What, the popular, wealthy jock wanted _more_ out of life? Another illusion falling victim to a colder, harsher reality. "I hope so." Kurt infused as much sincerity as he could into those three words.

Blaine's eyes finally rose, staring at Kurt. It seemed that some of that sincerity actually hit home. "I... Yeah." He finished his beer in one final gulp and pushed the empty glass towards the bartender. "Another one."

Kurt blinked; shit, he'd completely forgotten what he'd come over for! He pushed himself up onto tiptoes, craning his neck to see their table over the crowd; Dave and Sebastian must be wondering where he was...

Only they weren't. There, at least - the table was empty. Where had they gone...?

It was then that the music finally penetrated his consciousness. He'd been so intent on his conversation with Blaine that he'd tuned out all other sound. This was not difficult with the noise around them, but now the voices were clear:

_You are an obsession  
I cannot sleep  
I am your possession  
Unopened at your feet..._

That was Dave's baritone, rising in song even above the conversation and the laughter.

"Uh, Kurt? I was wondering..."

"Shh!" Kurt immediately regretted the rudeness, but as he rose from the bar stool and stepping towards the milling dance floor, he couldn't find himself caring enough to apologize. Especially when the second voice, the one he knew he'd hear, chime in:

_ I will have you  
Yes, I will have you _  
_I will find a way  
And I will have you..._

It took only a few steps forward and a twist of the neck to see them: Dave and Sebastian on the karaoke machine. Kurt's stomach twisted.

"Kurt?" The bare touch on his shoulder almost went unnoticed. Blaine was standing next to him now, looking concerned. "You okay?"

"I..." Was he? No, he most certainly was not. But why not? Sure, it would've been polite to wait for him to return before going up on stage (or so he felt - he knew even as the thought came to him that it was debatable), but it was hardly the _faux pas _of the century. If it had been anyone else up on that stage with Dave - hell, even Rachel - would he be feeling this way, like he'd swallowed a hundred Slushies?

He knew very well the answer to that particular question.

"You need a drink?"

"No," he replied firmly. If ever he needed a clear head, if only to work out things in his head and heart, it was now.

_ I feed you  
I drink you  
My day and my night..._

"You look like you're about to pass out. Why don't you at least sit down?" He felt Blaine's hand on his arm; Kurt shook it off. "Hey, I listened to what you had to say - you should listen to me now. I know you look at me as some closeted idiot - and fine, I am - but I think you need to..."

But Kurt wasn't listening anymore. It was all sliding into place. Funny how just a few words opened the door, blazing on him with the force of the Saharan sun. Looks... It was all about looks.

Dave was looking at two different things: the karaoke screen (natural, for someone who wasn't totally familiar with the lyrics) and the audience (again, natural - but then, Dave was a natural performer).

Sebastian, however... Sebastian was looking at nothing, at no one, but Dave.

It was so simple, and fit together so well, that he mentally kicked himself for not having realized it before.

_Sebastian Smythe wanted Dave._

Whether he was in love with Dave, or just wanted sex, the basic fact was there. No wonder he hated Sebastian so much. No wonder interacting with them was so uncomfortable. He was being territorial. On some level, he _knew_ that Sebastian was after his boyfriend.

Yet even now, even with the certainty of his conclusion fresh in his consciousness, the very thought seemed wildly unsupported. Sure, Sebastian paid a lot of attention to Dave; who wouldn't? He hadn't done a single inappropriate thing, said anything that sounded even remotely flirty, and for all their history - or perhaps _because_ of it - Kurt knew that Dave would never have kept silent had Sebastian done or said anything in private. Hell, even the song they were performing, for all its flirtiness, was actually appropriate for a pair of friends. After all, the two singers were obsessed with outside parties, not with each other. Plus, the emotions expressed were so clearly unhealthy that they were hard to take seriously.

It was so sexually aggressive, yet so nonthreatening, that Kurt was certain it was carefully chosen.

He was equally certain, now that he was watching the karaoke with clear eyes and calm (well, calmER) head, that Dave really had no clue what Sebastian's game was, or even that a game was being played. But who could blame him - Kurt himself had nothing but a restive instinct until moments before. Sebastian was that subtle, that good.

_But if he's that subtle, how do you know you aren't making this up in your head, seeing things that aren't really there?_ One look at the stage, at Sebastian with his guard down, gave an answer.

"Kurt?" Finally, the voice penetrated his mind. He sighed, turning to Blaine.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"You're really upset." It was a statement, not a question, and it was hushed, barely audible over the song and the people around them. But there was something behind the words, some kind of emotion or force, that was clear to Kurt even in his own inner turmoil.

"I... I don't know. I..."

For a long moment, Blaine stared at Kurt. What he was thinking, what he was feeling, Kurt had no idea. He just knew that there was something going on behind those eyes - some shifting, some motion, _something_ turning and churning in the other teenager's head and heart.

_My need to possess you  
Has consumed my soul_  
_My life is trembling  
I have no control... _

"Look..." Blaine finally said with a sigh. "You said before that the way I was talking 'wasn't me.' Well, now I get to turn the tables. This isn't you."

"What?"

"It's pretty clear something's bothering you. In all the time I've known you, you've never taken anything lying down." Blaine grinned wryly. "I should know."

Kurt frowned a little. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying... you should be Kurt Hummel. The one who takes control instead of just standing around being all pale." The grin vanished, washed away in a neutrality so complete that it had to be artificial. "You're a bitch, Hummel. But that's one of the best things about you. Embrace it."

Kurt had to laugh; it felt pretty damn good, actually. "You know what? You're right. Thanks." He gave Blaine a quick hug and began searching out the DJ or karaoke master or whoever was running this show. If there was a line... well, screw them. He was on a mission.

* * *

The crowd broke out into applause as the canned Eighties background music faded away. Dave felt a little heady: with triumph, with alcohol, with a little bit of the adrenaline that always came with performing in public. He gave a deep bow as Sebastian clapped him on the back.

As soon as he straightened, he scanned both the bar and their table, looking for Kurt. He felt a little ashamed for having just left without saying anything. He'd wanted to find Kurt before going on stage, but Sebastian had insisted. "If we don't get our place now, we'll be waiting forever! C'mon, he'll hear us sing, so he'll know where we are. Come _on_, I'm dying to get in a song? Please?"

Maybe it was the charm that practically oozed from every word; Dave knew that Sebastian was good at that. Maybe it was the pleading, almost puppy dog eyes; Sebastian knew Dave hated it when he did that - probably because it usually worked. Or maybe it was the buzz he was feeling from the drink and atmosphere (his first gay bar experience was kind of exciting - he'd never felt like he had so much in common with this many other people). Whatever the reason, he acquiesced. Next thing he knew, he was on stage for his very first public karaoke session. Sebastian was like that - able to sweep people up in his wake.

Sebastian had left the stage, thinking Dave right behind him, but Dave didn't notice. He was still looking for Kurt, and this was the best vantage point. All he could see were crowds of men, with a smattering of women, milling about, talking, drinking, and waiting for the next song. Where the heck was Kurt? Maybe he went to the bathroom? Or maybe he was looking for them at the pool tables in the back? Or...?

Suddenly, the karaoke machine sprang to life, cranking out orchestration. Dave jumped as words began to scroll up on the screen. He looked about wildly for someone coming up on stage for their song, but he could see no one. The spotlight had never felt so hot on his face, and this wasn't even a performance - it didn't matter. But something about the way all those eyes returned to him... He should get off stage right now so the person who requested this song could sing.

But with the lights on him, the music playing, the scrolling words getting closer and closer to its cue, and the anticipatory stares from the audience... His feet simply would not move. His brain couldn't seem to make the necessary command to make them do a damned thing. So as the words on the screen turned yellow, he heard his throat following them:

_Oh, thinkin' about all our younger years..._

Dave was familiar with the song, but the version he knew was slow and tender - this more upbeat, rock-based pace wasn't one he usually heard. But as he continued, he found himself thinking less, worrying less about whose song he was stealing - as so often happened to him when he was performing, he was lost in the music.

_There was only you and me  
We were young and wild and free..._

He opened his mouth to start the next verses, only to hear a voice - a high, velvet smooth, _familiar _voice - taking it up instead, ringing from the speakers around him.

_Now nothin' can take you away from me  
We've been down that road before...  
But that's over now..  
_

Kurt clambered onto the stage, microphone in hand; Dave almost dropped his own. Sure, they'd rehearsed duets in glee and belted out tunes during car rides or around the house, but this... Not even at last year's Sectionals did Dave have this overwhelming feeling that Kurt was singing _right at_ him.

_You keep me comin' back for more..._

It was fortunate for Dave that he already knew the lyrics, because he bear to pay attention to the karaoke screen for even a moment. He couldn't take his eyes off Kurt, off of everything he saw shining in those eyes and everything he heard expressed in that voice. They both launched into the chorus - together.

_Baby, you're all that I want  
When you're lying here in my arms...  
I'm finding it hard to believe  
We're in heaven..._

Dave wasn't paying any attention to the audience - a cardinal sin that Wes would've head-slapped him for committing. But frankly, he couldn't care less about what they thought, how they were reacting; what little he could hear of what was going on around him didn't seem that unusual anyway.

But Kurt... God... How had he never noticed his voice was _this_ beautiful? Sure, he'd always known that Kurt was a talented singer, a terrific performer, but...

Then it hit him - even through the haze of his drinks, it hit him. Mr. Charleston, the Dalton choral director, always told the Warblers that the key to a truly genuine performance was truly genuine emotion. "If you actually feel what you're singing... If you imagine that you're speaking to your audience, and you _really_ mean what you're saying... That will come through in your performance. I promise."

_I've been waiting for so long_  
_ For something to arrive_  
_ For love to come along..._

So that was it, then. He'd known it all along intellectually, but feeling it like this... It was something else entirely.

Caught up in the music, Kurt looking into his eyes... What else could he do at that point? He poured all of his chest, all of his volume, all of his fucking _soul_ into the next stanza, feeling like he was physically pushing something out from the inside, jamming it into his voice with the force of a body check.

_Now our dreams are coming true_  
_ Through the good times and the bad..._  
_ Yeah, I'll be standin' there by you..._

The look that came over Kurt's face in that moment... God, if he could just see that look for the rest of his life, he wouldn't need to see anything else.

Because he knew that Kurt was thinking exactly the same thing he had...

_Love is all that I need_  
_ And I found it there in your heart..._  
_ It isn't too hard to see_...

When Dave first heard about Rachel and Finn's onstage kiss at Nationals, the one that Kurt told him about and Santana ranted about all summer being the moment that cost them a shot, he didn't really understand it - the thoughts and impulses that drove them to it. Now that he was in a similar situation, and emotions and hormones were shooting through him like rockets... He still didn't understand. He didn't understand how they could've been able to bear to break that perfect moment with movement, how they could've made themselves _do _anything to begin with, with the weight of his feelings on his shoulders and head and chest. It was as though everything but the "Kurt Hummel" part of his brain were shut down - the singing was pure automatic pilot.

_We're in heaven..._

He knew, on some level, that the song had come to an end. He didn't hear the backing track cease. He didn't care. He still couldn't bear to break the moment, to even think about the fact that it _was_ a specific, discrete moment in time, destined to end.

The audience was applauding and wolf-whistling. That much he was aware of. Whether it was any louder or more raucous than normal, or whether they saw any of the sparks flying between him and Kurt (sparks? More like goddamn fucking _lightning bolts_, judging by the way his heart was pounding), he didn't know, and frankly didn't care.

It wasn't until Kurt nudged him in the side with a very wide smirk that he managed to regain feeling in his limbs. "C'mon. Take a bow. They loved us."

Dave did so, albeit rather more stiffly than he otherwise would have. His knees still trembling just a little, he managed to climb off the stage, only half noticing the mildly annoyed glare the waiting singer at the front of the line was giving him. By the time he and Kurt rejoined Sebastian at the bar, they were laughing and elbowing each other, though Dave had absolutely no memory of how they'd gotten that way.

"Good song," Sebastian said simply, taking a sip of beer. Dave's bubbly good mood began to pop a little; he knew something of Sebastian's moods and behaviors by now, and his friend sounded... not himself. Certainly not the jocular, upbeat guy he usually was. He was... upset? Angry? Neither of those possibilities made any sense, though; what would he possibly be upset or angry about? Had some guy hit on him while they were on stage? Maybe, but he couldn't help but feel the mood was somehow directed towards him, or Kurt, or both, and they certainly hadn't done anything.

"Thank you," Kurt replied with a dazzling smile. Dave's good mood began to return; it was nice that Kurt and Sebastian were getting along. (Later, he'd kick himself mightily for even thinking this; he tried to tell himself that he was drunk, and didn't know any better, but there was just so much that he didn't see that he couldn't help but feel like a fucking moron.)

"Yeah, you were fucking amazing, Kurt. You should go up again, Seb," Dave said with his own smile. "It's.. man, it's a rush!"

Sebastian shook his head. "Nah, I think I'm done with karaoke for tonight. No way I could follow that."

"Well, then," Kurt replied, "I hope you don't mind if David and I get in one or two more songs tonight?"

"Knock yourselves out. I'll be playing pool." He wandered off without another word. Dave frowned.

"Huh. Sorry about that, Kurt. He's not usually like that. I hope he's okay."

"I'm sure he's fine. C'mon, help me pick out our next song. I want to do something more modern this time... How about something that shows off that fine baritone of yours. Maybe a song written as an actual duet... Oooh, how about...?"

Kurt took his hand, and once more, he was swept away in someone else's wake. Not that he particularly minded; it was fun to let go once in a while, especially when Kurt was involved. Besides, if he could recapture that moment on stage... He'd sing disco all night if he had to.

* * *

"Whoa, there, big boy. You almost stepped on my feet. _Again_," Kurt huffed good-naturedly. Dave hadn't had _that_ much to drink - so hopefully he wasn't going to wake up with the mother of all hangovers _again_ - but he had had enough to bring him right to the edge. But then, Kurt couldn't blame him, not this time. Despite the sweaty crowds and the presence of He Who Must Not Be Named (not to mention the unpleasant realization about him), the evening was actually almost... magical.

Funny how things worked out sometimes.

Dave muttered an apology as the two emerged into the cool night air, Kurt's arms around Dave's shoulders, gently guiding him towards the car. Luckily, Dave was sober enough this time to be self-locomotive - he just needed a little steering in the right direction.

"Uh, hey, Kurt...?"

"Hm?"

"We're... forgetting someone."

"Oh?" Kurt asked innocently, knowing he would never be able to get away with this when Dave was completely sober.

"Yeah. Where's...? Hey, there he is! Seb! Sebastian!" Indeed, several feet in front of them, already unlocking his car door, was Sebastian Smythe. Dave tried to jog towards him, but almost tripped on his own feet; Kurt righted him with one swift motion. "Where are you goin'? You went an' _vanished_ on us back there!"

Sebastian shrugged casually. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was... talking. To someone. I know."

"Uh..." Dave's face scrunched in the effort he was taking to process the statement. "Okay."

"Since the two of you kinda left me alone for ages..."

"Geez, Seb, I'm really sorry. I said you wouldn't be a wheel and then I went and made you one."

"Oh, no, it's fine. I'm kind of beat anyway, so I'm just gonna head on home."

"Are you good to drive?" Kurt asked, much to his (and, apparently, to Sebastian's) surprise. Well, it only made sense; he may have hated Sebastian for his squirrelly ways, but he didn't want him wrapped around a telephone pole either.

"I'm fine, thank you. I didn't end up drinking all that much." He turned his attention back to Dave. "You go home and sleep it off. We'll talk later."

_Over my dead body,_ Kurt thought. The instinct was strong, automatic (but then, if it weren't, it wouldn't be _instinct,_ now would it?). That brought up a whole new can of worms that Kurt knew would have to be opened eventually. But for now, he let Dave reply, "You know it, man," give a sloppy wave, and watch as Sebastian peeled out of the parking lot and rocket off into the darkness.

"Seb's a good guy," Dave mutters as Kurt leads him towards the car like a guide dog with a blind man. "Hope he's not upset or nothin'."

_Huh._ Apparently, Dave's powers of perception survive drowning in alcohol, because "upset" was exactly what Sebastian was, despite his efforts at hiding it. And it was pretty clear what the reason for that upset was - at least to him. But to Dave? Probably not.

And that would be the tough part.

Dave was silent as Kurt pulled away from Scandals. Kurt, watching for traffic, didn't spare a glance towards him, so he half-assumed Dave had fallen asleep. It wasn't until several minutes into the drive that a voice, rumbling and surprisingly even, met his ears. "Have a good time?"

"I..." Kurt sucked in a breath. "Yes. Yes, I had a wonderful time with you." He hoped Dave didn't hear how automatic the statement was; his mind was still whirling too much to really put a lot of sincerity into it.

"Mm, good," Dave replied, apparently not noticing the automatic-ness, nor the rather obvious omission Kurt had made. "I was worried..."

"Why?"

"'Cause you seemed a little... kinda... I dunno... Out of it? Mad, maybe?"

Kurt was very glad it was too dark on the road for Dave to see his face at that moment. Again, that perception, for all it failed with Sebastian, apparently lost none of his potency with him.

_Because he knows you. Because you wanted him to know you._ A smile came over Kurt's face.

"It's fine," he finally replied.

"Did someone back at the bar fuck with you? If he did, remember what he looks like, so I can go punch him."

Kurt chuckled. "No, no, as much as I'd love you to, I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

Kurt briefly took one hand off the wheel to pat Dave's head, which was lolling loosely in his direction. "Yes, I am. But you're sweet."

"Yeah, I am." Kurt wasn't sure what he laughed at: the exaggerated self-satisfied tone or the way Dave's voice cracked at "am." A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. "S'riously, though, I'm sorry for not telling you 'bout goin' up to sing... I know you woulda wanted to. It's just that Seb was so stoked about wanting to do karaoke that I guess I just went along with it without thinking..."

_Of course_. "It's fine, Dave. It's not your fault, and no harm done regardless." _However much _someone _wanted to._ Hell, maybe he owed Sebastian a favor for "outing" himself; at least now Kurt had an idea of what he was up against.

The silence fell again, only the whisper of tire against road. Kurt wondered if he could turn on the radio without disturbing Dave too much. But before he could bring himself to a decision, they were at the Abrams house. True to his promise when Kurt texted him at Scandals, Artie was already at the side door, thrown wide open, as the car pulled quietly up the drive.

"Hey," Artie said in a harsh whisper as Kurt got out and opened the passenger side door. "Sorry I can't be of much help."

"That's all right," Kurt replied in a low but otherwise normal voice. "He should be fine to get into bed. Just go slow and be there to lean against if he loses his balance."

"Should I, like, make sure he has a garbage can or something?"

"I don't think that'll be necessary. Just be warned that he snores like a freight train after a night of drinking."

Artie groaned. "Great." There was a pause as he watched Kurt extricate Dave from the car. "So did you have a good time at your first gay bar?"

Kurt paused. He regarded the face of the young man leaning against his shoulder, peaceful under the harsh outdoor lighting.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

* * *

Opening night of _West Side Story _was, frankly, a blur to most of those involved. Adrenaline tended to do that. Even though most had previous experience in public performance, and all were (or at least thought themselves) good at what they did, there wasn't a single person who didn't have a _little_ bit of stage fright that first night - even those who never went on stage.

The cast did their best to reassure their director, but while he appreciated it, he seemed to only half hear it; as soon as they were done, Artie was getting everyone into their places with the precision and charm of an Army drill sergeant. By the time the curtain went up, Dave was pretty sure that Artie's paleness was _not_ due to the splashes of harsh stage lighting on his face.

Still, the production, for a lack of a better word, seemed to _click_; Dave attributed this to Artie's work with the Bully Whips. If he could efficiently coordinate a group as diverse as the glee club, this group of commonly interested souls was no problem. As Dave waited for his cue for his next sung line in "Cool," he dared to look out at the audience. Even in the darkened house, he could just make out the figure of Blaine Anderson, sitting sixth row, stage left center.

_Huh._ Even with his detente with the glee club, he didn't imagine that Blaine was the musical type. He hadn't even told Dave that he'd be there - Kurt hadn't said anything about it either. Perhaps he was there to support Santana; he couldn't really think of another reason he'd attend.

But such speculations were as fleeting as the time Tony and Maria had together; in moments, he wrenched his attention back to the music. Dave spent Act II doing homework, and before he knew it, it was almost time for the curtain call. He watched from the stage right wings as Rachel sadly regarded the procession bearing Mike's limp form offstage; he almost thought he saw actual _tears_ welling in her eyes.

Then came the true finish to a stage production: the roar of applause from the audience. When Dave stepped out on stage for his bow, he saw his dad, Callie and her brother (David had a Warbler rehearsal, but swore he'd attend with every single other Warbler before the run ended), and Blaine all stand up, the latter even hooting at the top of his lungs. Kurt strode out from stage left to his own tumultuous applause (and a piercing whistle from Finn). Artie claimed that he put both their curtain calls together as their characters were the two major leaders of the Jets, but neither he nor Kurt fully believed that was the only, or even the main, reason. Still, he didn't mind the opportunity to link Kurt's hand with his as they took their bow.

When Mike and Rachel appeared on stage, the whole house was on its feet; even the cast behind them joined in the applause. Rachel drank it all in as she usually did, but Dave couldn't help but notice the sheer fucking _joy_ practically radiating off Mike. His bow was low and sweeping, filled with the kind of gratitude that only one truly feeling it for the first time could possibly express. Dave's palms were starting to ache, he was clapping so hard.

"He deserves this," he managed to hear Kurt say over the din. "He really does." Dave nodded absently.

As the entire cast linked hands to join in the final bow, Dave couldn't help but think that he truly understood Kurt's stage ambitions. Even the next day, standing on the empty stage looking out at the empty house, he could still feel the nervous excitement of the curtain rising, the sheer energy that came from being on stage, the headiness of the audience's approval. Though he had little desire to perform as a career (he was leaning towards mathematics, although his dad still not-so-subtly prodded the possibility of law towards him every once in a while), just remembering the emotion, the triumph, made him want more. Lucky for him there was still at least another week of performances to go.

So lost was he in thought that he didn't hear the echoing footsteps approach, made by high leather boots that had been paid for only after hours of summer labor in an oily garage. He did, however, hear the voice: "Penny for your thoughts?" Dave smiled as he turned to see Kurt emerging from the stage left wings, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"Nothing much. Just... reliving opening night."

"It was something, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna miss it when we graduate."

"You could still do it as a hobby. College productions, community theater."

"If I have time. But point taken. I'd sort of rather do that with hockey, though."

Kurt nodded. "You guys are doing well."

"Yeah." Dave smiled at Kurt's still burgeoning interest in the sport; he liked to think that only part of it was due to having a boyfriend on the team. _God, I am the best hockey teacher ever._ "Coach is really good - best I've ever had. He really knows how to bring out the best in all of us."

"Sorry I haven't made it to your past few games. Horrible timing. But once the presidential campaign is over..."

"It's no problem. Seriously. Our lives don't have to revolve around each other, you know."

"Is it bad that I sort of want them to?" Kurt's voice turned soft; Dave's breath hitched for no reason he could ascertain. "Or at least, that I want mine to?"

Dave laughed nervously. "Gee, thanks for the pressure. Now I have to make sure that I'm worthy to have you buried in my life. Gotta warn you, though; it's actually as boring as fuck."

Kurt shrugged. "The most interesting my life got was when I was being stalked. I think the Chinese had it right; interesting is overrated." He took a step forwards towards Dave. "Though I was thinking about... something..."

"Interesting?" Dave asked with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

"Funny," Kurt snickered. "But in a sense, yes. I was thinking about what we were talking about a while ago. Over homework? About...?"

"Over homework..." Dave frowned, searching his memory. "About...? Oh." His eyes widened. "Ooooooh."

"Yeah. I've been going over things between us, like you asked." Kurt's eyes were locked on Dave's; he couldn't turn away - perhaps even literally. Dave actually felt like he couldn't physically turn his head away, even if he wanted to. "I've been considering us very seriously. Our history. Our future." Dave didn't see, but he certainly felt, Kurt take his hands in his own. "And..." To Dave's horror, he trailed off.

He wanted to scream at Kurt to continue. It was only with supreme effort and force of will that he managed to only let out a scratchy "And?"

"And... I'm sure." He took a visibly deep breath and continued. "I'm sure that I've forgiven you, and that I trust you. That even if we don't end up together the rest of our lives, I want to give us a serious shot. And since that means we'll have this milestone eventually... Why not now?"

Dave tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. In some distant part of his mind, as quiet as the echo of someone yelling from a faraway mountaintop, he realized that his blood was _not_ rushing south of the border like he somewhat expected it to in this kind of situation. All he could hear, all he could think about, were Kurt's words: _I've forgiven you... I trust you... I want to give us a serious shot... _At least Kurt seemed unaware of the explosions going on in his brain...

"You look like you're in shock right now..."

_Shit._

"... But that's okay." He gave both of Dave's hands a squeeze before letting go, his fingers caressing the collar of Dave's shirt. All right, _now_ the blood was rushing south of the border. "Finn will be at Rachel's house this Saturday. Dad and Carole will be at a fundraiser in Cleveland. I'll be all alone..." Kurt gave a coquettish smile. "Correction: _we'll_ be all alone."

Dave liked to think that it was his manly sports training that allowed him to stay upright at that moment. He nodded, not trusting any words that could emerge from his mouth.

"See you then, stud." Kurt gave him a peck on the lips and strode away.

Dave stood there, staring at the empty space Kurt had once occupied, for hours and hours (at least, that's the way it felt). Fortunately, no one was around to hear the booming, echoing "YES!" that blasted through the theater.

* * *

Kurt spent his nervous energy that Saturday cleaning. After all, it wouldn't do to show a guest a dirty house, especially one as special as Dave. Oh, but first, he had to run a load of laundry; his sheets needed to be changed, and...

_Sheets_. Exactly the reminder he did _not_ need. Truth be told, Kurt felt a little like he was going to throw up. This was a _moment_, this was _special_. What if he screwed it all up? What if he was putting so many expectations into this night that no reality could measure up? What if... Oh, God, what if Dave just didn't like the way he looked naked?!

He knew he was being silly, but he just couldn't stop. There was one small comfort: he knew he was going into this for the right reasons. Much of his time since the night at Scandals had been spent musing over a key question: was he going into this because he was afraid of losing Dave to Sebastian? Was he "putting out" for fear that Sebastian would do it first? If there was the smallest chance of that, there was no way he could go ahead. Both he and Dave deserved so much better than that.

And really, that was the thought that assured him that he was on the right track: the fact that he was investing so much in his relationship - his friendship - with Dave. That he trusted Dave so implicitly when it came to Sebastian. That he knew Dave so intimately as to create that trust. That he could imagine him and Dave knowing and loving each other for years to come, no matter what happened, even if it was as just friends...

Doorbell. Oh, God, doorbell.

Kurt threw the comforter atop his freshly made bed and sprinted downstairs. He paused in front of a hall mirror for the briefest of moments to adjust his hair, and continued his run when the doorbell rang again. If that was Mercedes, or a door to door salesman, or some stranded motorist, or a crazed serial killer... He began to plan his "go away now" strategy when he threw open the door.

Dave smiled sheepishly. "Hi."

Kurt willed his heart to stop kicking at his ribs, already. It didn't listen. "Hi."

Dave was wearing a long-sleeved shirt (freshly ironed; Kurt could almost feel the warmth) and dark blue jeans that Kurt couldn't remember him ever wearing before. He was freshly shaved, his hair still had the faintest whiff of shampoo and good _Lord,_ just the sight of him did things. This decision was spectacularly well-timed.

"Uh... Is it safe to come in?"

"What?" Kurt snapped to attention. "Oh! Yes. Everyone is gone, as promised." He stepped aside to let Dave in, then shut and triple-locked the door. "We have the house to ourselves until Sunday afternoon."

"Great." But Dave didn't look like he was that enthused. Kurt's soul sank; was he having second thoughts? But then he saw Dave wipe sweaty hands on the butt of his jeans, that little tongue thing he did whenever he was tense... _Dave is just as nervous as I am. _This was hardly the surprise of the century, but it somehow made Kurt feel much better.

"So, uh... Are you hungry? Did you want to have some dinner? I have some pasta I could whip up..."

Dave's eyes darted left and right rapidly. "Um... Don't take this the wrong way, but... Knowing what I know about... uh... why I'm here... I don't think I could, um, get through dinner without me just... thinking about it... so I think we should eat later and oh God I am the lamest fucking human being on the face of the planet." He wiped his forehead. "Jesus, Kurt, I'm sorry. I'm just kind of nervous and I want everything to be perfect but I'm not sure I can do that and God I'm babbling now, please stop me..."

Kurt did so, with a deep kiss. Dave's hands slid over his shoulders as Kurt's wrapped around Dave's waist. When they finally came up for air, they were both chuckling. "I'm nervous too. I... I don't want to disappoint you..."

"Kurt, there is no fucking way you could do that..."

"And _that_ is the kind of pressure I could do without," he replied teasingly, beeping Dave's nose with one finger. "And I agree: I think we should have a nice, relaxing dinner... _after_..."

It was as though it was a signal of some kind. Dave abruptly bent down, wrapping one arm around Kurt's shoulders and the other under his knees, sweeping him off his feet. Kurt couldn't help but burst out into giggles.

"Oh, Rhett, you're so manly," he declared in a high falsetto, colored with a cheesy faux-Southern accent.

Dave chuckled. "Frankly, my dear, I do give a damn." And he carried Kurt up the stairs.

* * *

Blaine sat at his desk, staring at his phone. He felt as though he'd been doing that ever since that night at Scandals.

Shit, he just had to go and let his guard down, didn't he? He didn't go there to deal with _feelings_ bullshit. It just... Seeing Kurt like that, the anguish welling up in him... He had to _stop_ it somehow, make him feel _better_...

Blaine almost threw the phone at a wall in frustration. Shit, he really was screwed, wasn't he? Hopefully, this wouldn't blow up in his face, but still...

He hit the auto-dial for Santana. He couldn't tell her _everything_, but if he didn't talk to _someone_, and fucking _soon_...

* * *

"Uh... Dave?"

"Y-yeah?"

"You're staring."

"Um, of course I am. This is kinda the first time I've ever seen another guy naked outside a locker room..."

"Ah. And...?"

"And...?"

"Am I... do I...?"

"Kurt, you're the most beautiful fucking person I've ever seen in my whole sorry life."

* * *

Sebastian was fuming. It'd been days since Scandals, and he was _still_ fucking fuming. He turned away from his half-finished English paper in frustration. He was starting to slip; all the Warblers sensed there was something _off_, and gave him a wide berth. Not that it would help them win Sectionals; quite the opposite, in fact.

It was Hummel's fault. Goddamn fucking _Hummel_!

The worst part was, he _knew_ now. Sebastian had no idea how he figured it out, but Hummel _knew_. Dave was still talking to him, still texting him... for now. But who knew how long that would last.

The worst part was, it was going so _well_. He'd insinuated himself into Dave's life as a friend so deeply that it was almost time to start nudging things towards the next level. With Dave's guard down, everything would have fallen into place.

Would have. If not for fucking _Hummel_!

Sebastian tried to calm himself. He still had a shot; he knew that he hadn't been too overt (or indeed, overt at all) in his intentions, despite Hummel's lucking into the truth, so any objection on Hummel's part would just look like him being the bitch he was. He didn't want to have to abandon this pet project; it was just about the only thing besides the Warblers making life at all interesting. Still, if he had to, he already knew what to do to take down both Karofsky _and_ Hummel and benefit himself and the Warblers in the bargain...

No, no sense thinking about that now; better to leave that for the right time. He was still good with Dave; if he could just leverage the friendship just a _little_ more, beat out any defrosting in Hummel's ice queen ways, he _knew_ he still had a shot...

* * *

"Am I... Do you like that?"

"Ohh..."

"Gonna take that as a yes..."

"Shut up and kiss me, Dave..."

* * *

"Yo, this is Santana. Leave me a message, maybe I'll get back to you." _Beep._

_Fuck._ Blaine turned off the phone. He scrolled down his list of contacts. Chris? No fucking way. Cooper? Yeah, right, maybe Sylvester would join a convent. Karofsky...

Karofsky. Now _there_ was a completely insane thought. If Karofsky had even the slightest inkling of what was going through Blaine's mind, of what he wanted to do, hoped to do, _had_ to do...

Yet... they were still friends. Kind of. In a weird sort of way. Maybe, if he phrased things just right, maybe if he used a lot of loose hypotheticals... Maybe, just _maybe_, he'd get enough insight to figure out just what the fuck to _do_... He hit the Call button before he could change his mind.

_Ring._

_Come on..._

_Ring.  
_

_Come on, Karofsky, please, answer...  
_

"Hey, this is Dave. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks."

_Shit._ Blaine ran his fingers through his hair. He knew that he'd probably get to talk to Karofsky eventually. He also knew that by then, he'd have chickened out.

Every minute, he could feel his life, his sanity, slipping away from him inch by inch. God, what the hell was he going to DO?

He also hoped that whatever Karofsky was doing, it was at least something worthwhile enough for Blaine to feel like he wasn't suffering needlessly...

* * *

"Aaah... Aaaah!"

"Jesus...! Nnnngh!"

* * *

Kurt had thought that the term "afterglow" was just an expression.

But by God, it wasn't.

He blinked lazily at Dave, silhouetted in the moonlight streaming through the window. Their arms, their legs, the sheets... It was all a tangled mess, knotted in and around and over each other like a rope factory after a tornado. He felt a bead of sweat drip down his back as the two lay together in the dimly lit room. Dave rubbed Kurt's shoulder.

"How..." He paused; Kurt somehow knew that his question was going to be "how was I?" Not because Dave's ego needed stroking; quite the opposite, in fact. But apparently, the therapy was doing some good, because he instead changed the query to "How are you feeling?"

"Mmmm... Good. Very, very good." He took Dave's free hand into his.

"That was..."

"Yes?"

"It was better than I ever could've imagined."

"I completely agree."

Dave's face seemed to light up, independent of the lamp and the moon. "Yeah?"

"Of course. Because it was you."

Even in the dim light, Kurt could see Dave turn beet red. "You're gonna give me an inflated ego, Kurt."

"You deserve it."

Now Dave's voice lowered into a growl. "You're also gonna make me want to keep doing this, again and again and _again..._"

"And what's stopping you, Mr. Karofsky?"

"Well, I need a little rest. Just a little. _Ver__y _little." He grinned wickedly. "But you take whatever time you need..."

"Oh, I think I'll be ready before you."

"Do you, now?"

"Don't sound so surprised!" Kurt slapped Dave's shoulder playfully; the larger teenager winced. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I...?" Kurt sat up, squinting in the poorly lit space.

"No, I'm fine..."

"Just a second, I see something..." He stifled a gasp. Dave's right shoulder was home to a large bruise, about half the size of Kurt's palm, shot through with ugly purples and reds. "Oh my God..."

"Kurt, it's okay..."

"It doesn't _look_ okay! Why didn't you tell me...?"

"Because I knew you'd overreact like this. It's fine. It'll heal."

"But where'd you get it? How...?"

"Hockey."

"It looks so painful! Are you sure...?"

Dave gripped his boyfriend's shoulders gently. "Yes, Kurt, I'm sure. It comes with the territory. I've gotten a lot worse in my years playing, believe me. I'm _fine_." He guided Kurt back to a prone position beside him. "So..." he said with a cat's smile, "what do I have to do to distract you from my little boo-boos?"

Kurt grinned, and demonstrated.

"Oh... Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can do that..."


	10. Mash Off: Taking the Hits

"I keep thinking about her. I can't stop." Puck ran his fingers over the shaved parts of his head. Dave listened silently. "She's... she's so _beautiful_, man. Every time I see her, I... Fuck, I keep wondering... what if...?" He paused, looking up. Dave nodded encouragingly. "I still... I guess I still can't believe that someone so perfect came outta my gene pool, y'know?"

Dave laughed. "I gotcha."

"The thing is... if I'm _this_ hung up over Beth, you gotta imagine what Quinn's..."

"Yeah." Dave did indeed know. It felt like whatever time he wasn't spending with school, Kurt, or hockey was being spent putting out fires Quinn was starting. Things were coming to a head - he could feel it. Thus the talk with Puck, perhaps the one person who could understand her - or at least, this aspect of her. "Look, man, Ms. Corcoran is getting suspicious. I dunno if we can keep her in the dark forever." Dave licked his lips; he _knew_ Puck wasn't going to like what he was about to suggest. "Do you think... do you think we should just tell her what Quinn is doing?"

"No!" Puck leaped to his feet. "Then she'd never let Quinn near Beth again, and... I can't do that, dude. We've been through too much with the Bully Whips. I don't want to break her." He began pacing. "I just can't."

"Okay. Then someone's going to have to confront her. Someone's going to have to get into her head. And you haven't left me many other choices besides making it me."

"I owe you, Dave, I swear to fuck I do. I'll help any way I can."

"I'm gonna need it. Just tell me everything you know about her. You guys may not have been a couple or anything, but you're at least sort of friends. And you both are Beth's parents. I just... What's going on in her head, man?"

Puck took a deep breath. "Okay..." As Puck began talking, his hands twisting against each other like writhing spiders, Dave wondered just how he got sucked into it all. But he knew; these people - these crazy, crazy people - were growing on him at an incredible rate. _No wonder Kurt loves them so much._

Ah, well, if he started absorbing the crazy, at least he already had a therapist.

* * *

As New Directions filed out of the gym, battered and sweaty but otherwise whole, Kurt was still babbling. "You were _amazing_, Dave! I had no idea you were that good at dodgeball!"

Dave shrugged. "Hockey. It's all about aim. If you can do it on ice skates, you can do it in sneakers."

"And you were eliminated protecting _me_!" Kurt's eyelashes actually _fluttered_. Dave almost laughed, but quickly suppressed the suicidal urge. He was being flattered by Kurt; the last thing he wanted to do was laugh, assuming he wanted to keep his heart in his ribcage.

"It was nothin'. Really." Dave turned deep red. "That Sheila has a _wicked_ arm on her, though. Oh, hey, you okay?"

Rory stopped short. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just feel lucky I was knocked out early." He paused. "Say, David..."

"Hm?"

"How is, ah... hockey?"

Dave's brow furrowed. "Fine, I guess. Why?"

"Ye sure?"

"Uh... Yes? Again, why?"

Rory affected a casual shrug. "Just wonderin'."

"Oh! Speaking of hockey!" Kurt clutched Dave's arm. "Guess who's going to be front row center at your next game!"

"Well, there's not exactly a front row center... The seats are all around the rink, and..."

Kurt whapped his boyfriend on the shoulder. "I know that! And that's not the point!"

"Just kidding, Kurt. I'm really glad you'll be able to make it; we're on a hot streak. I think we're gonna make States for sure."

"That would be so wonderful!" Kurt paused thoughtfully. "I've always wanted to wear my boyfriend's letterman jacket..."

"Well, then, I'll see what I can do. Once you're class president, you can wear it to council meetings!"

"That is a _wonderful_ idea! Oh, are we still on for debate rehearsal tonight?"

"Of course. But you sure you want to do it? I mean, you've been rehearsing every night this week. As Coach says, there's such a thing as being overprepared, y'know."

Kurt clucked his tongue. "Not in my book. Besides, I almost have it. I _know_ I'm going to kick butt at that debate!"

* * *

"You're _nervous_?" Dave asked in disbelief.

Kurt, his hyperventilation finally calming, only nodded rapidly.

"But... You perform in front of huge crowds all the time..." He waved an arm towards the closed curtain; even muffled, the buzz of the crowds on the other side was almost deafening.

"That's singing and acting, Dave. This is... this is a debate! I'm not a character or anything like that... I'm _me_. And I'll be competing directly against two more popular students! What if... What if I'm not good enough? What if I'm not what they want?"

"Then fuck them all sideways with a rusty shovel." Dave gripped Kurt's forearms. "Look, I can do the supportive boyfriend thing and tell you all the ways you're spectacular, but I don't think I need to. _You've got this_, and you know it! I dunno if you're gonna win the election or not, but you and I both know that you can win one stupid debate that you've been practicing until you're almost hoarse. You did great last night with me and your folks, and you can do it now. For fuck's sake, what happened to 'Eat your heart out, Kate Middleton'?"

Kurt blinked. "You remember that?"

Dave rolled his eyes. "Moment like that's not easy to forget." He grinned wolfishly. "Especially one as fucking _sexy_ as that."

"Well, then," Kurt said with a grin of his own. His shoulders, bunched up with tension, finally relaxed. "Thanks," he sighed. "I'm not sure how much better I feel, but I am calmer. I think that's all I needed."

"Good." Dave pecked him on the lips. "Break a— Wait, do you do that in politics? Or is that just plain bad luck?"

"I have no idea. But I'll take that in the spirit in which it was intended."

"I'll see you at lunch." With that, Dave hurried out of the backstage area. Within a couple of minutes, he was sliding into his seat next to Artie. "Thanks."

"One advantage to being in a wheelchair: you can save practically anyone else a seat." He chuckled. "This oughta be interesting, though."

"Oh, yeah? I thought these kinds of things were always boring. Except for Kurt, of course."

"Of course. But I've learned a lot about leadership this past year. It'll be interesting to see what Brittany and Kurt have learned."

Dave was about to question this further, but Principal Figgins walking on stage to introduce the candidates silenced him. Soon, the debate was underway. Rick Nelson started with his opening statement. Dave had little idea why Rick was running; he never seemed like the leader type in hockey. Maybe he just liked the spotlight; he would hardly be the only one on the team who did.

"... and I'll make sure the teachers really listen to students..."

Artie snorted. "They say in business that the first and last thing you should ever do is listen to your customers. That's doubly true with school. Students would have every class outside and play Telephone the entire time if they had their way."

Dave stared. "Seriously? They actually ask to...?"

"Seriously. I've seen it with my own eyes. You've been spoiled at Dalton for too long." Dave was digesting this even as Brittany began her opening statement. He looked up at the stage and blinked; he hadn't even realized until that moment that Brittany was wearing a formal suit — her Bully Whips suit, in fact. He had little doubt it was intentional.

"Thank you. Fellow McKinley students, I'm running for class president because I believe in our school and in our students. I'll use the skills I've learned as a cheerleader and a Bully Whip to guide us all, seniors and freshmen alike, to a new future..."

"Wow..." Dave breathed. The normally bubbly, flighty Brittany was nowhere to be found. The woman up on stage was direct, serious, intense — she reminded Dave of the competitive champion cheerleader, or the Bully Whip patrolling the halls with her eagle eye.

Artie nodded approvingly. "Way to go, Britt."

"Together, we can make great strides. Together, we can improve the school and our community..."

"You know," Dave said, "she really isn't saying a lot. I mean, it sounds great, but she's kinda short on specifics."

"Yeah," Artie murmured. "It's very clever."

"Huh?"

"It's not about policy or proposals," he said, slipping into an almost professorial tone — one he often used when addressing the Bully Whips or a cast under his direction. "It's about expectations. Everyone knows Britt's rep, so they all expected her to go up there and start promising rainbows in every classroom and setting up traps to keep away the tigers. By being serious, even if she's not saying anything substantial, she's blowing away their expectations, and that gives her a serious leg up."

"Oh." Dave looked about the crowd; he saw Santana and Blaine sitting together near the front row. The latter looked smug, while the former gave the young woman on stage a subtle thumbs-up. He knew now who was primarily responsible for this strategy.

Finally, it was Kurt's turn. Dave straightened expectantly; when Kurt began to speak, he found himself mouthing along, as if he were the one who wrote it.

"Thank you. I'd like to start with a question of my own, to the female students of McKinley: how many of you have felt debased or lessened in the eyes of others because you wouldn't do exactly what a boy wanted you to do?" There was a ripple through the crowd; many of the girls looked uncomfortable considering the question. "Students of color, how many of you have felt forced to laugh at a racist joke told by your friends, even though it wasn't funny?" There was another ripple; Dave saw Az-whatever-his-name-was, one of the football players who'd been dragged into the GSA, shift in his seat. "The Bully Whips are a great institution, but I want to build a McKinley that has no need of them. I want to build a stronger McKinley on a foundation of tolerance, respect, and equality..."

"Your boyfriend's off to a good start," Artie said.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"He's really connecting. That was his biggest problem, and he's really overcoming it. I think he may have a shot at this. Hey, if you ever want some tips on the campaign managing thing, let me know."

"Cool." Dave paused in thought. "You don't mind? You know, with Brittany running...?"

Artie sighed. "I'm... I'm accepting the whole breakup thing. Slowly, but I am. Besides, Santana and Anderson seem to have her campaign under control. Hell, with them at the helm, you'll probably need all the help you can get."

"You're probably right," Dave said ruefully. His eyes returned to the duo. "Sometimes I wonder what's going on with those two."

"How do you mean?"

"Hm? Oh... Nothing." _Fuck, that was a little too close._ It was easy for Dave to forget just how much of a secret _that_ was. He wrenched his attention back to the debate; Kurt was answering a question about club funding. Dave, deciding that Santana had the right idea, gave Kurt a smile and a thumbs-up. He hoped Kurt saw it, but judging by the way his smile widened at that exact moment, he thought he did.

* * *

Rachel had always prided herself on being in control: of her life, of her destiny, of everything around her. Each fed into a single goal: accomplishment of her dreams. But the feeling of being in charge of her own fate (which made her more confident, which enabled her to take bold action, which brought about events that improved her chances of achieving her desires, so you see, it was all interwoven) was being... battered lately. Or perhaps more accurately, being beaten to within an inch of its life.

The taking away of her (her!) solos was the first blow. Then the NYADA mixer debacle. Then the _sharing_ of Maria in _West Side Story_. Then her realization how highly unlikely she was to be elected senior class president (her endorsement of Kurt on the way out was probably the only decent thing to come out of _that_ disaster)... Even a girl as talented as her, even a girl destined for such glorious things, could only take so much.

"Aw, what's the matter, Man-Thing? You look like someone just stole your dog... then put it on Broadway instead of you."

And there was just the perfect topper to a dreadful month.

"Please, Santana, I'm not in the mood..."

"Well, that's just a shame, because my girl — my candidate — just kicked major ass in the presidential debate, so I am _definitely_ in the mood." The other girl cocked her head thoughtfully. "But now that I've got a good look at you, you seem pretty pathetic right now already. So maybe you don't need my help."

Could it be? Could she actually escape this? "Well, I have to go..." She began to turn away.

"Maybe you should join the Troubletones." Rachel stopped short. "You know Ms. Corcoran would let you in in a heartbeat if you asked. Probably give you a bunch of solos too." Rachel turned back towards Santana. "Hell, we could use another diva..."

"R-really?"

Santana stared for a minute, then barked out a shriek of laughter. "Fuck, no! You ser-seriously thought we'd let _you_..." She let out another peal of hysteria. "Oh... Oh, man! Wait 'til I tell Quinn... Let you into the Troubletones... God, you're even more deluded than I thought...!" With that, Santana staggered away, her entire body shaking with her mirth.

Rachel stared after her, her brain slowly beginning to process what had just happened.

_You were thinking about it. You were _actually_ thinking about it! You were going to drop them all, betray them all... _

_Well, they betrayed me first! Going behind my back like that to undermine me...!  
_

_But they're still your friends, despite everything. And you were going to turn your back on them all just because they wanted a chance... You were going to follow in Santana and Quinn's footsteps, and for what...? Your personal glory? Is that_ all_ that matters...?_

"Oh, my God..." Rachel's tremulous voice said out loud to the empty hallway. "They were right..."

* * *

"Well, then, see you all next week!" With Kurt's cheerful farewell, the weekly meeting of the McKinley High GSA was over. The group rose and quickly scattered — some to leave, some to grab more refreshments. Blaine was on his feet at once. He knew if he didn't do this _now_, he'd chicken out again. "I'll be right back" was all he muttered to Kurt before hurrying out the door — Chris was almost halfway down the hall by that time.

"Hey! Dude!"

Chris turned, his pace skidding to a stop. "Oh, hey, Blaine."

Blaine still wasn't sure how he was going to do this; it wasn't like he had a lot of time to plan, between schoolwork, the Bully Whips, football, writing Brittany's speeches, and listening to Santana gripe about Hudson and his ham-handed attempts to "interfere" with her life. But hell, he'd winged it in more dire circumstances, hadn't he? Like that one game when he was facing down not one, not two, but _three_ defensive linemen just itching to take him down... Then again, there was _also_ that time Kurt followed him into the locker room... _That_ time didn't go so well...

"You were... uh... You were kinda quiet at the meeting, so I thought we could talk..."

Chris shrugged. "Yeah, well, I'm never really sure what to say, y'know? I mean, I don't really go for that sparkly rainbow shit..."

Blaine forced a laugh. "C'mon, it isn't that bad..."

"It's not? I'm sorry, dude, but the whole thing is a waste of time. I have no idea why you're still doing it."

"Hey, it's going to look awesome on my transcripts..."

"Your transcripts could be just your dad's name, and you'd get into any school in the country. Seriously, Blaine, what's the point? Why was us joining such a big deal? None of us are fags..."

Blaine tried not to flinch at the word — a word, he fully realized in wry irony, he'd slung about himself quite a few times in the past. "Cut the slurs, dude. You're supposed to be learning fucking tolerance in there."

"Like I said, what's the point? It's not like I'm gonna beat any of them up. But you can't teach me to _respect_ 'em. I mean, they're just... not right."

"Oh, yeah?" Blaine swallowed. "Just 'cause they like guys? Or girls? Or both?"

Chris shook his head. "It's fucking _creepy_, man. It just... it just makes my fucking skin crawl. You agree with me, don't you? I mean, you used to."

"I..."

Fortunately, Chris continued, because Blaine had _no_ idea what he would've, or could've, said next. "Like I said, I don't think they should be harassed or put into straight camps or anything, but seriously, I don't know a single queer who's anything like a normal person."

Blaine didn't have to ask about, or demand, a definition of "normal," because he knew exactly what his old friend was thinking. "What about Karofsky?"

"He's dating _Hummel_. How normal can he be? He probably wears lacy lingerie under his jeans or something. Look, Blaine, don't get me wrong, I actually kinda respect that you're doing something for society and all that crap. You've got balls, risking your rep for Hummel and his pals. But you're never gonna convince me or anyone else at this school that the gay shit is normal, especially not with a bunch of group hugs and pretty speeches. 'Cause it's not." Chris shrugged again, a casual gesture. But why wouldn't it be; why would anything he said have been offensive or even at all remarkable to Blaine, his best friend whom he knew so well? "I'll leave 'em alone like a good boy. I'll come to the meetings, I'll listen to the speeches... Hell, I'll even put up the posters in public. But seriously, Blaine? You're wasting your time. Nothing's gonna change around here." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I gotta run. Hit me up for Halo tonight, okay?" With that, he turned and jogged down the hall.

Blaine could only stare. There were so many things just on the tip of his tongue, but his throat froze before he could even consider saying any of it. Even now, his head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton.

He'd never felt so alone in his life.

* * *

"Wooo! Go, Dave!" It was times like this that Kurt wished he'd been able to keep the Cheerios uniform and other accoutrements of his time as a cheerleader (it all went back to Coach Sylvester when he left; when he asked her what good it would do anyone else since it was fitted to him, she replied, "I have my own surgical team." He didn't ask any further). It really would've come in handy. Ah, well, at least he knew how to project his voice. Even over the din around him, Dave's head still snapped up as he skated by. He found time for a quick wave before the ref blew his whistle.

The crowd was raucous, and as big as Kurt had ever seen for a Titans hockey game. The old adage really was true: nothing succeeds like success. With the team's rising fortunes, a guaranteed spot in the playoffs tantalizingly in reach, their cachet had risen significantly, even _with_ the awful mullets (Dave had jokingly suggested he get one — _once. _Kurt felt some satisfaction that his death glare could cow even a big strong hockey player).

Kurt pounded at the clear plastic wall in excitement, feeling a little like he was peering into a glass bowl, watching a school of fighting fish battle it out. Without the convenient colored glow that TV usually put around the puck, it was a lot harder to keep up with the fast paced action, especially when a single good shot could send everyone rocketing in any seemingly random direction at whiplash speeds. But all Kurt was interested was a number: 7, the one on the back of Dave's jersey. Seeing the 7 glide around the ice, taking shots and defending the puck... It was, he had to admit to himself, a _huge_ turn-on. Something about the grace, the athleticism... When Dave scored a goal, he was on his feet along with the rest of the crowd, screaming his throat out. He liked to think that Dave could hear his voice, and his alone, amongst the other shouts.

Still, there was something disturbing the perfection, something gnawing at the back of his mind. It took him until halfway through the third period, when Dave was slammed into the wall by a Thurston High player during a particularly hard assault on the puck, to realize what it was.

Dave was taking hits. A lot of hits. Sure, hockey was a rough, physical game, as Dave himself constantly reminded him (indeed, it was one of the reasons he loved it so much). Yet Kurt had watched a lot of hockey in the course of his sports education under Dave's tutelage. It wasn't supposed to be _this _violent. It was as though many of Dave's teammates had no interest in covering him unless there was a good shot at stake. And although all the players on the ice were being battered to some extent, Dave seemed to be having it rougher than anyone else.

But that was ridiculous, right? It was just his protectiveness jumping to conclusions. It wasn't like he knew hockey as well as he should. Besides, wouldn't Dave have said something if...?

_No, he wouldn't. Dave loves the game too much. This is his one outlet outside of the glee club. Maybe he doesn't even realize..._

Kurt couldn't help but remember that bruise on Dave's shoulder. He shuddered.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack and a gasp from the crowd. Kurt's head jerked up; he hadn't even realized that he'd zoned out like that. What the hell had happened...?

Dave was lying on the ice.

_Dave_... was lying on...

A knot of players were standing over him. The Thurston players looked kind of dazed, and a little concerned. Some of the McKinley players seemed concerned too; one (number 12, Justin McKay, some part of Kurt's mind supplied) was kneeling at Dave's side. But others... They were standing around, leaning against their sticks, looking actually _bored_.

Kurt rose to his feet, one part of him wide-eyed in concern and another part blood-boilingly angry. Why wasn't anyone _helping_ Dave? Why wasn't...?

Okay, an adult was on the ice now, someone Kurt didn't recognize, but one with a calm, professional air that screamed "medical professional." He joined #12 in kneeling next to Dave, asking something Kurt couldn't hear over the crowd. Dave... thank God, he was conscious. He was saying something, shaking his head. He was trying to get to his feet... The doctor and #12 had to help him get upright. More discussion Kurt couldn't hear followed; Dave apparently wanted to get back into the game, but the doctor seemed to disagree (thank you, doctor). Finally, Dave's shoulders slumped; he slowly skated to the bench or dugout or whatever it was called, sitting down with an annoyed air.

His heart finally calming to reasonable rates, Kurt was inches away from turning to the person next to him, a middle aged woman in a hideously fluffy sweater, and demanding she tell him what had happened. He only just managed to swallow the temptation down. Dave was okay. He was okay. That was all that mattered.

Not that the thought kept him from rocketing to the arena locker rooms the instant the game was over (he only half acknowledged to himself that McKinley won, only felt the slightest jolt of pride — in one player in particular, none at all for the team or school in general). He stood by the door (he knew from personal experience that he wouldn't be welcome inside), bouncing on his heels in frustrated impatience. Finally the team hobbled into view, helmets off and sticks propped on their shoulders, laughing and high-fiving. Dave was near the middle of the pack, his face glowing in the overhead lights from the sheen of sweat. He was talking and smiling and god was he beautiful.

"Dave!" Kurt gave a hearty, full-arm wave. Only then did the team notice him; all eyes were turned towards him. Kurt tried not to let his smile falter in the slightest.

"Hey, Karofsky, you've got a groupie!" one of them laughed. Kurt's spine stiffened; he forced himself to relax. Whoever had spoken, the tone was light-hearted and teasing — not at all hostile.

"Yeah, I do," Dave replied with a laugh. "Jealous?"

"As long as he stays out of the locker room." Now _that_ tone was hostile. It tried to cloak itself in the same teasing tone, and almost succeeded, but Kurt had long, painful experience with telling these kind of subtle differences. And whoever said that (and dammit, he hadn't been able to tell who)... _He_ had a problem with Kurt, and possibly Dave. A big problem.

Dave snorted in annoyance. "Don't worry about it. I'll talk to him out here." He and Kurt watched as the team filed into the locker room; the instant the door swung shut, Dave wrapped Kurt in a tight embrace, culminating in a soft kiss. "Thanks for being here. You really did a lot for my morale."

"Oh?" Kurt asked with a sly smile. "So would you say I won you the game?"

"MVP, for sure," Dave chuckled.

Kurt laughed in delight before remembering what had happened. The smile slipped off his face like rain; Dave's did the same. "Dave... are you okay?"

"What? Why wouldn't I...? Oh. Right. Yeah, I'm fine. Really."

"What happened? I didn't catch it, it happened so fast..."

Dave rubbed the back of his head. "We were tied at the time, right? So there was this huge scrum for the puck, and I... I got nailed. In the head. With a stick."

Kurt gasped. "You...? You got hurt?!" Duh, that had been obvious, but still...! To the _head_...!

"It was an accident. There were sticks flying everywhere, and I guess someone just got carried away."

Kurt didn't know how to reply to this, so he didn't, for the time being. "And you're sure you're all right? Head injuries can be..."

"I'm sure. The doc looked me over, and I don't even have a concussion. Just got the wind knocked out of me, 'cause it was unexpected. We don't wear these helmets 'cause they're pretty, you know. Plus I got a pretty thick skull to begin with." Dave laughed, but Kurt's lips didn't twitch in the slightest.

"And that bruise on your shoulder... That was just an accident too?"

"What bru— Oh, that. Yeah, it was. I told you, hockey can be a violent game. I know you don't like that, but you don't need to worry about me."

"Dave, something's not right. You shouldn't be getting hurt so much."

"You're worrying over nothing. I'm not getting it worse than any of the other guys."

"Yes, you are! You forget, I saw you every day last year at Dalton during hockey season, and you never were this battered!"

"How would you know?" Dave asked with a smirk. "I wasn't stripping for you back then."

Kurt's mind instantly flashed an image from three nights previous: Dave's little tribute to Chippendale's. He blushed. _No, no, head in the game, Hummel. This is _exactly _what __Dave wants to do: distract you! _"Be that as it may, I've seen you limp. I've seen you wince when someone touches your arm or claps you on the shoulder too hard. You can't tell me that's normal!"

"It is," Dave replied bluntly. "And if I want to play after high school, even if it's some rinky-dink college team, I gotta learn how to take it." He gripped Kurt's shoulders gently. "I know you're looking out for me, and I love you for it, but seriously, I'm fine. Everything's fine. Some of my teammates are dicks, but we just want to win. I don't think they have it out for me at all." Kurt couldn't help noting that he hadn't even suggested such a thing yet. "I promise, if anything really bad happens, you'll be the first to know about it, and I'll do something. But 'til then... Can you just let me have this? Please?"

The last word was almost whispered, and Kurt's heart dropped. He knew how much had been taken away from Dave when he had to leave Dalton, and it was foolish to expect that being able to be with his boyfriend could make up for all of it. Still... "Okay. I'm going to trust you. But don't think that means I won't be keeping a closer eye on you."

Dave waggled his eyebrows, which sent Kurt into giggles. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I gotta get changed." He pecked Kurt on the lips. "I'll be out in a few minutes. Then we can go out and celebrate."

"See you then." Kurt watched as Dave disappeared into the locker room. He certainly felt better than he had a little while before, but still...

There was something going on. He could feel it.

He only hoped that he'd be able to stop it if it got any worse...

* * *

"Go away."

Blaine shook his head, gripping his girlfriend's hand even more tightly. "Your lips say go away, but your eyes say please stay."

Santana rolled said eyes. "Go to hell, Anderson."

"Already there. Look, I have a bad feeling about this. You're gonna need moral support, and I'm gonna give it to you whether you fucking like it or not."

They were almost at Coach Sylvester's office, an unwelcoming place even at the best of times. But there had been something about this summons... He'd been in earshot when she'd received it. He had only been half-conscious of following Santana. He knew that his friends were probably as confused as all hell, but he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment.

"Are you always this freaking annoying?"

"What can I say? It's one of my best traits." They were stopped in front of Sylvester's office door. "You really want me to go away? I'll go. But... like I said, I have a bad feeling, San. I... I _want_ to be there for you. Please let me?"

Santana looked up at him with an imperious look, but her eyes were shining in a way they didn't usually. She snorted. "Fine. If you want to waste your time. C'mon."

They entered the office. Mr. Schuester and Kurt's dad were there; Blaine's misgivings deepened. Sylvester raised an eyebrow when she saw Blaine, but Santana waved her off. "Anything you say to me, you can say to him." The eyebrow inched even further up, but she didn't push.

Then it all came out.

Blaine could only hear bits and pieces over the roaring in his ears: "Reggie Salazar." "Finn." "Lesbian."

"Ad."

"I haven't even come out to my parents yet..."

Santana was on her feet and out the door by the time Blaine came back to himself. He rose; Sylvester stopped him with a raised hand.

"You aren't going to get anything out of her. Not now. You try, she'll slap you so hard it'll straighten your hair."

Blaine sank back into his chair. He knew that she was right, but... "But... she's all alone..."

"Give her time to calm down." Sylvester regarded him for a long moment; Blaine started to feel himself withering under her gaze. "You knew."

It wasn't a question, not at all. It was a pure statement of fact. Blaine saw Mr. Hummel and Mr. Schuester exchange puzzled glances. He just nodded. It wouldn't do any good to lie now, especially not to Coach Sylvester.

"So why?"

She didn't explain her question any further, but she didn't have to. He had the feeling she had at least an inkling of what the truth was, but hell if he was going to come out now, especially with Kurt's dad right there. "She was blackmailing me." That at least had the benefit of being part of the truth, and he felt fairly confident that Mr. Hummel and Mr. Schuester would never guess what she was blackmailing him over, even if they were curious.

Coach Sylvester merely nodded, which did nothing to disprove his theory about her suspecting. "I've taught her well. But I always knew she was a natural. She reminds me of one Sue Sylvester. Of course, I was barely out of diapers when I hit her level of deviousness, but she has potential." Her squinty gaze drilled into Blaine's forehead; he could physically _feel_ it. "The crap is going to hit the fan, and as much as I am loathe to admit it, I am helpless to stop it. Not that I won't systematically ruin Reggie Salazar's pathetic life, and reduce him to a quivering wreck of a man unfit for anything but the derision and scorn I normally reserve for glee clubs, but that won't prevent what's going to happen." She glared, a full on Sylvester glare, the expression that was whispered of in harsh tones in McKinley's halls, a sight to be feared. "She's going to need friends."

Now here was something he felt comfortable with. Blaine did his best to hold Sylvester's gaze. "She'll have me if she'll let me."

"Not good enough. She's going to try to push you away. Bleed in private. You do NOT let her. You got that, Baggins?"

Blaine nodded his head firmly. "Got it."

"Loyalty and unquestioning obedience. Good. Maybe you aren't as hopeless as I thought. Although I'm still fairly certain I could scrub my bathtub with that head of yours. Now get out of here. The adults — and Schuester here — have a lot to discuss."

Blaine didn't need to be asked twice. First, a text to Santana. No reply. Call. Voice mail. He struggled to remember what she said her plans for the day were.

It took him a while, too long, to remember. In his defense, there was a lot weighing on his mind already. He hadn't told Santana about his conversation with Chris; it would've opened up too many cans of worms, tempted him to tell her things he _really shouldn't_ be telling her. He badly needed _someone_ to talk to, but who could he turn to? Certainly not Kurt or Karofsky, not when...

But that could wait. He had to find Santana. He wasted a lot of time searching the school and talking to people before he finally recalled her saying something about a Troubletones performance. Well, it was worth a try.

When he barged into the auditorium, no one noticed; they were too busy listening to the performance. Santana and Quinn were taking lead, in slinky black dresses, and if Blaine hadn't witnessed Santana's life being ripped away from her, he wouldn't have believed anything had ever happened, watching her on stage now.

He should've known better. The way his life was, the way it was going, the way it tainted everyone it touched... He should've known it would blow up.

He wasn't quite sure how it went down; it all happened so fast. He caught a glimpse of Hudson and Rachel Berry talking. The next thing he knew, Santana was in front of them, as if she'd teleported. She was screaming, her voice choked. "Now _everybody's_ going to know!"

Kurt was sitting a couple of rows away, staring in shock. Karofsky was next to him, halfway out of his seat, as Santana blasted Hudson with the full force of her fury.

Blaine knew Santana by now — knew her more intimately than he ever would have as an actual, genuine boyfriend. So it was with certainty that the thought came to him: _Fuck. This isn't good._

He strode forward without even really thinking. Santana's anger was reaching a fevered pitch; it was now or never. Blaine was at Hudson's side before any of the three — screaming Santana, gaping Hudson, shell-shocked Berry — even noticed his presence. He grabbed Hudson's shoulder; that got their attention. Hudson and Berry turned towards him, while Santana's eyes widened in surprise. Blaine hauled Hudson to his feet — an easier task than he'd expected, given their height difference, but he had the element of surprise, and Hudson was already stunned by Santana's epithets.

Then he socked Finn Hudson square on the jaw.


	11. I Kissed a Girl: Making Waves

**AN: Jesus, two months... I could offer excuses, but they'd be just that. Apologies to all still reading this, and hope y'all are still enjoying. Useful feedback either way is appreciated!**

**Speaking of feedback... I got this massive story written for the Kurtofsky Gift Exchange, and I could use a beta reader who's not participating in it as well, since it's being written specifically for another person and I really want it to be good. PM me before early June if willing and able.**

Naturally, the results of the visit to Principal Figgins' office was about as preordained as anything earthly could get. Blaine knew that when he punched Hudson; hell, that was a big reason he did it in the first place.

Figgins gave Blaine a stern (for him) lecture about keeping one's temper and physical violence on school grounds, and sent him on his way. That was it. No punishment, not even a note in his permanent record. His parents weren't even informed. It was the only the second time that Blaine had used his pull with Figgins for anything worthwhile, and it felt... Well, it felt like making up for the past, at least to some extent.

But no. He was already in far too deep to make up for _everything_. Not even if he was stuck at McKinley for another fifty — hundred — years could he make up for everything now.

No, the _actual_ surprise in the whole "disciplinary procedure" was that Hudson backed up every word Blaine said. It was just a "minor disagreement." It "didn't really hurt; he barely touched me." (Figgins, in a rare display of perspicacity, asked, "Then what about that rather large bruise on your chin?" Finn sputtered out something about running into a door. Blaine mentally groaned and thanked the Lord that Figgins had long since made up his mind.)

As soon as the door to Figgins' office shut behind them, Kurt and Dave appeared, practically out of nowhere. Each boy took a position on either side of Blaine and Finn, following them down the hall in a kind of twisted march. "What happened?!"

"Sheesh, Hummel, chill," Blaine snorted. "Hudson's okay."

"I know he's okay!" Kurt snapped. "What about _you_?"

Blaine stumbled on his own feet a little, his shoes squeaking an echo across the empty hallway. He smoothly regained his balance (thank you, hours upon hours of football practice) quickly enough that no one noticed — he hoped. "I'm fine, of course. Why wouldn't I be? You of all people should know I've got Figgins practically in my pocket..." The impact of his own words nearly knocked him off his feet again. He could almost _feel_ Hudson's and Karofsky's glares on the back of his head. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't," Kurt said, flashing his own little glares at the others. The feeling of daggers on him immediately ceased. "But what were you _thinking_? You'd been doing so well... I thought... I just thought you were..." Kurt shook his head, the words crashing against each other. Blaine blinked; he never thought he'd ever see the sharp-tongued Kurt Hummel at a loss for words, certainly not over _him_. "I just... I just hope you're not backsliding..."

Oh, God, the disappointment. Blaine thought he'd already ripped his own heart out seeing the expressions he himself put on Kurt Hummel's face. He thought the pain and the terror were the worst. He was wrong. Lord, was he wrong.

"He's not." Both turned in surprise to Finn, who was rubbing the back of his head. "I... I think I might've done something stupid." Such was the seriousness of his tone that none of the three present even thought of making the obvious snide remark. "I... I should talk to her. I..."

Kurt rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I think you've done enough for one day."

"But I didn't mean...!"

"I know you didn't, but the fact remains that it happened."

"I was just frustrated! I wasn't thinking!"

"Obviously," Blaine said sourly. He couldn't let a slow pitch like _that_ go by. Besides, he still felt like punching Hudson again; Santana would've wanted him to.

"Dude, we know you're sorry," Dave said, "but you think she wants to listen to you right now?" Finn looked stricken, almost enough for Blaine to start to (oh God) feel a little _sorry_ for the bastard. "Hell, she'd probably throw stuff at most of us before we even got a chance to say word one to her."

Kurt nodded. "Santana is... standoffish when she's upset. You should know that by now." Finn nodded reluctantly. "We need to give her time. Most of us, at any rate." He raised an eyebrow, taking a significant glance at Blaine. Blaine nodded without a second of hesitation.

"I'm there for her." It was funny; a year ago, she (hell, any girl) was just a piece of ass to him, to be used and discarded at his whim when they ceased to be useful. He'd even gotten most of them to think that his manipulation of them was a _favor_ to them. It was more than just a desperate attempt at a coverup; he'd actually found it kind of... fun.

A wave of nauseating shame ripped through him; Blaine had to take a deep breath to keep from throwing up. Then he watched Kurt and Dave talking to Hudson, and the nausea returned. It was just a matter of time now; he couldn't keep a lid on things forever. His fucking _feelings_ wouldn't let him.

And then what?

* * *

Dave felt like throwing the remote at the TV. Only the mental picture of an enraged Burt Hummel staring at his smashed flatscreen stopped him. "That son of a bitch..." he managed to rasp through grinding teeth.

"I hope my father eviscerates him," Kurt said in a low voice that Dave knew by now was his most dangerous.

"At the polls?"

"No, I mean literally eviscerates him. Though the way I hear it, Coach Sylvester is already halfway there." He shook his head; his grip on Dave's arm started to actually hurt. "How dare he. How fucking _dare_ he. Using someone's sexuality as a weapon... and against someone else! He took something that's supposed to be... personal and... He didn't even think about...! He...!"

Now Kurt was sputtering, so far from the usually smooth and articulate Kurt Hummel that Dave knew it for the sign of emotional turmoil that it was. For the hundredth time, he thanked God he wasn't stupid enough to even think about actually outing Blaine Anderson... Not after that initial reaction, anyway. He reached over Kurt's shoulder and hugged him into his side tightly. Dave could feel Kurt relax, just a little.

"Well, we'll be there for her. Help her accept herself, just like you have with Blaine."

"But that's not enough." Kurt sighed, leaning his head against Dave's shoulder. "Coming out isn't the end. You know that. We can't just celebrate her newfound honesty — which was forced on her, remember — and assume everything's going to be okay. She's going to need more. She deserves more."

"Yeah, I can see that." A moment of silence passed; they watched TV, but neither really absorbed what they were seeing on screen. "Do you think...?"

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"I just... I just wonder how I would've handled it if I were her. If I'd been in the closet, and someone else dragged me out before I was ready."

Kurt was quiet for a long moment. Dave wanted to look over at him, but couldn't quite figure out how to adjust his body to do that without disturbing his boyfriend's head on his shoulder. "I think..." he began quietly, "I think I would've been okay. Personally. I know I would've had my dad's support. Wish I'd have known that when I was first figuring things out. But... it would've been rough, at least at first. Hell, maybe after that too."

"Yeah. Sounds the same for me. I know my family loves me and all, but there's always that little doubt..."

"Which just emphasizes my point. We have the support systems, but we have no idea what Santana has. Even if she does have it... Everything's changed for her now. We can't just expect her to settle into her new world immediately."

"Yeah. But at least she has the Troubletones. And—" A trill came from Dave's pocket. "Whoop, hold on a sec." He pulled out his cell phone, tapped on the screen, and read. He chuckled, and his thumbs flew across the screen with a wry grin. "Sorry 'bout that," he said as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Sebastian."

"Oh." That leaden feeling came back into Kurt's stomach. "What did he want?"

"Nothing. Just shooting the shit."

"Ah." Kurt had almost forgotten about Sebastian Smythe, what with the run at the presidency and the other little dramas that seemed to pop up weekly at McKinley, but this brought everything back at a full, sickening rush.

The worst part was trying to figure out his options. What could he possibly do? He was _certain_ of Sebastian's intentions, but how could he stop them? He could confront Sebastian, but Kurt had little doubt that he'd would deny everything (or, if they were in private, admit everything, and dare Kurt to stop him). He could tell Dave, but would he believe him, when all of Sebastian's interactions with him had been so innocent? And if he didn't believe Kurt, what else could he do? Demand he stop seeing Sebastian? Make him choose between them? That would look controlling (and Kurt wasn't sure it wouldn't be), and drive a wedge between them faster than Sebastian ever could.

Kurt suspected Sebastian was counting on that, the bastard.

Yet how long could he keep silent, and watch Sebastian try to worm his way into Dave's heart, even if Dave never took the bait? They'd promised that they'd be honest with each other. Besides, Kurt knew his irritation would show through eventually, and if it simmered long enough, it'd probably come out in some kind of messy explosion that would just make things a thousand times worse.

Kurt suspected Sebastian was counting on that too.

He had to admire, just a little, the neat little corner Sebastian had painted him into. It was clever in a twisted sort of way, especially since it'd taken a random brainwave to even see what he was doing to begin with. God damn him...

"Kurt?"

Kurt started. "Hm?"

"I asked you what you wanted to watch. Three times."

"Oh... I'm sorry. I was a little distracted."

"Obviously," Dave snickered. His face relaxed into concern. "You feel like talking about whatever it is?"

Kurt shook his head. "Not right now. Soon, though, I promise."

Dave merely nodded. "Okay." He turned back to the TV. "So I thought we'd check out that new Hong Kong action flick Sam told me about..."

And that was it. No more questioning, no more probing. Most of his friends would've blundered on like a rhino in heat. Just one more reminder of why he gave Dave a chance.

On the other hand, maybe it would've been better to bring it up now, even if he had no idea what he wanted to do. It just gave him more time to stew and worry. God, if Smythe knew, he'd laugh and laugh... But the simple truth was, he'd have to tell Dave about Sebastian's scheming ways eventually.

He just hoped that his relationship, his _friendship_, would survive.

* * *

Blaine held his breath as he approached the front door. If Santana wasn't here, this was going to get difficult.

He'd gotten a strange, sympathetic reception at her house from her grandmother, who merely said that her granddaughter "has brought embarrassment to this family and is no longer welcome here." He'd resisted the urge to bring even _more_ embarrassment to this woman personally and stormed off before he said something he'd regret — or end up in front of a juvenile court judge for. Second choice? Obvious. Santana may not have liked the idea of showing her pain in this particular house, but she was emotionally vulnerable and had few options, so she'd likely take this way out.

Blaine wanted to think that he would've been next on the list.

He stepped up onto the porch. He raised his clenched fist to knock... and the door swung open.

Brittany stood on the other side, completely unsurprised at his presence. Blaine blinked; he hadn't _noticed_ anyone peeking out of the windows, but she had to have been to have known he was coming... right?

"She's upstairs," Brittany said without preamble, stepping aside to let him in. "She won't talk to anyone."

"Even you?"

Brittany paused for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, before shaking her head. "We're... too close. She doesn't need her girlfriend right now. She needs just a friend."

_Well._ That certainly tossed another ingredient into the confused stew pot that was his opinion on Brittany. She always knew how to get and get to people — hell, the very fact that she was one of the top dogs at school _despite_ her being "easy" told volumes about her knack at understanding others. But Blaine had never thought her capable of being this... focused? Direct? But then, she had something, some_one_, to focus on...

_Fuck, they really are in love._

"She's in the guest bedroom," Brittany said, interrupting his thoughts. "Upstairs, second door on the right."

Blaine nodded. "Thanks."

She nodded in return. "She wasn't sure you'd come. But I knew." She cocked her head, as if analyzing him just by look; he suppressed a shiver. "You love her too."

He nodded again; what else could he do? "Yeah," he said through parched throat. Then he went upstairs.

Once there, he paused in front of the indicated door, listening. He didn't hear anything on the other side, but then, he had no idea how thick the doors were in this place. He heard one of the other doors in the hall creak open; he caught a glimpse of Rory Flanagan's face peeking out in curiosity. The two met eyes for a moment, and the door slammed shut again. Steeling himself, he knocked on _her_ door.

"If that's Lucky the Leprechaun again," a voice rheumy with snot snarled from the other side, "you'll be coughing up your Lucky Charms by the time I'm through with you!"

"It's me."

The door opened almost instantaneously. Santana's eyes were red, her hair undone and tangled over her shoulders. "Took you long enough," she growled, practically yanking him into the room and slamming the door behind him. She whirled on him, arms crossed. "Well? What's first? The stupid questions, like 'how are you doing'? Oh, maybe you're gonna tell me that it's all gonna be okay, or that you understand. Come on, spit it out. What fucking idiotic platitudes are you going to lead off with, Anderson?"

Blaine stared at her in silence for a moment. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened, started to push back... Then dissolved into sobs, her own arms flinging themselves around his torso. He felt her tears soak the shoulder of his shirt as he gently led her to the bed; they sat down on the edge. He rubbed her back as it heaved with her weeping. He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that; it couldn't have been less than ten minutes, though. Eventually, the crying ceased, but she still didn't move or even slacken her grip on him. Though his arms were starting to get a little tired, he let her sit there like that until she finally let go and pushed herself away from him. Only then did he break the embrace.

Santana sniffled, snatching up a tissue from a nearby box and wiping her moisture streaked face. "You saw it?"

Blaine shook his head. "No. But I found it on Salazar's website." What he didn't mention was asking one of his dad's aides to do a little investigating on the guy. The smallest skeleton in the closet, the least little secret, and Blaine was determined to blow it up on every gossip news magazine show and scandal rag he could think of. The only thought that had brought a smile to his face in two days was the thought of seeing Reggie Salazar's broken visage slumping through a flash-filled media scrum screaming at him.

"She was supposed to be the good _abuela_," she muttered. Blaine nodded; he'd heard her stories about her mother's mother, a hard and borderline abusive woman with whom the family had lived when they were poor and Santana's father was struggling to pay for medical school. Alma Lopez was supposed to be different... better. Blaine had a feeling that's what was particularly crushing her right now — the bitter disappointment. "She said she loved me. She was supposed to love me."

He knew that she wasn't expecting him to say anything, which was fortunate, because Blaine had no idea how to answer her. Grandparents... parents... They were human too, after all. Not all of them were fit or particularly worthy of their roles. Sometimes they could surprise you... for both good and for ill.

Blaine's mind flashed to Roger and Elaine Anderson, and pushed back the question that was nibbling at the back of his brain.

"Two weeks. Two fucking weeks. My entire life's changed, and that's all the time it took. It... it wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be—"

"Your choice," Blaine said quietly.

She nodded. "I wasn't supposed to be alone..."

Blaine glared. "What the fuck do you mean 'alone'? Who am I, chopped liver? What about Brittany and the rest of your glee club group? You know they'll be there for you, even if you are with the enemy now."

Santana rolled her eyes. "My 'glee club group' will gather around me with hugs and sing happy kumbyahs with me, then wander off with their own little dramas and just assume that because I'm out and feeling a little better that all my problems are solved."

"Are you going to give them any reason to assume otherwise?" Blaine asked quietly. Santana stiffened, but he would've known even without that little physical sign that he'd hit a mark. "If you're just going to pretend you're fine so no one goes poking around where you're hurting, no one's gonna know that you need anything."

"I don't," she sniffed.

"Uh huh, right. You cried on my shoulder for half an hour because everything's just peachy. You forget, San, I'm a hardened veteran of lesbian crying jags."

"Fuck you."

"That's Brittany's job." He sighed and put an arm around her shoulder. "So fine, just being out doesn't mean your problems are all solved. But you and I both know that as lame as that glee club is, they're gonna stick by you — even if you don't want them to. So you might as well do what you always do and take advantage of them. And there's the GSA, too — you know they're gonna fall all over themselves to make sure you're okay..."

"Fine, fine, I get the picture — McKinley's all going to be one big happy family..."

"Except for the homophobes, and the gossip mongers, and the guys who think they just need to get into your pants to 'convert' you... Except you've probably already done them all anyway, so that doesn't even make sense..." She turned a full on Santana Lopez _glare_ on him, which was ridiculously relieving. This was normal. This was easier to handle than despair, for both of them. "My _point_ is..." he hurried on — he may have been relieved to see the glare, but that didn't mean he was stupid enough to wait for the action that inevitably followed, "... that unlike your singing and dancing friends, I've got my eyes wide open here. I know that the world isn't perfect. I know you've still got a lot of shit to face. I'm just saying that you assuming that everyone's going to just forget about you isn't doing you any good. Fine, most of your friends are self-absorbed and narcissistic — hell, I'm one of them, I'll admit that — but you've built up a lot of goodwill over the past year. The Bully Whips, the GSA... You've shown them that you're actually human under all the bitch. And I think people will remember that."

There was a long silence, interrupted only by the occasional sniffle. Finally: "You know that whole speech sounds exactly like something Schuester or Pillsbury would barf out."

Blaine shrugged. "I don't hear 'I deny anything you said is true, Blaine, you gorgeous hunk'."

Santana laughed, a sound that sent the tension fleeing from Blaine's shoulders. "Oh, god, you're deluded..."

"But right."

The laughter stopped, replaced by thoughtfulness. "I suppose." With Santana, that would have to be enough.

"Well, _I'm_ definitely stuck with you. Abandoning my ex in her time of need would really hurt my rep. So I'm going to make sure you get the help you deserve, whether you want to or not."

"Better wear a cup, then, because I'll be _real_ tempted."

"Already wearing it."

Santana snorted. "You really are learning." She sighed. "Fine. I'll let you make me your charity case. But if you ever tell anyone that I was crying like a little bitch, I'll wear that shredded wheat brick you call a scalp as a hat."

He hugged her. "So noted."

* * *

"Hi! You're a senior, right? Don't forget to vote today! Here, take a button! Hey, dude, good game last night! Don't forget to vote for Kurt Hummel, okay?" Dave sighed, looking down at his still half-full box of buttons. The one positive was that Brittany's and Nelson's representatives seemed to be having the same problem. There were only so many voters to go around, and all the polls (which was pretty much Jacob ben Israel's and one being taken by Sue Sylvester, whose numbers were still under wraps) said the race was close. Still, it felt like a vindication of Kurt's political touch and his own managing that the race _was_ that close, running against a popular cheerleader and a jock. But it would certainly be quite the gem on Kurt's resume if he were to actually win...

Someone was approaching from behind, and Dave's mind immediately went into campaign mode. "Hey, are you—? Oh, hi, Rory."

"Ah, hello, David."

Dave was suddenly conscious of how much he towered over the Irishman, especially the way Rory appeared to shrink into himself in that moment — sticking his hands in his pockets and crowding his arms close to his body. "Is... something the matter? Is Santana calling you 'Darby O'Gill' again?"

"It's... not me I'm concerned about."

Dave tried to wrench his mind off of how cute (not cute as in sexy — cute as in _cute_) Rory was with his slight stature and lilting accent. "Then who...?" He blinked. "Me?"

"I tried to mind my own business," Rory burst out, his accent sharpening in his agitation. "Ye have to understand — in my neighborhood, mindin' yer own business is usually what keeps yer head on yer shoulders. But these past few weeks... I really like ye, David. Ye and Kurt... Yer not at all like what my church an' my family raised me to think guys like ye are like, and I can't keep my mouth shut anymore..."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down... What are you talking about?"

"It's yer hockey teammates. I think they're out to hurt ye."

"Uh, no offense, Rory, but I can handle myself. Besides, guys get hurt all the time in hockey..."

"Ye don't understand!" Rory burst out. "When I said hurt ye, I meant _hurt ye_. As in, deliberately!"

Dave froze. "How would you know?"

"I saw the way they looked at ye at yer tryout. I... didn't like it. I really didn't like it."

Dave raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You think my teammates are out to hurt me... because they looked at me funny?"

"Not just funny! The way someone looks at someone when they _really_ hate 'em, and wants to hurt 'em bad!" Rory's face turned pinched and desperate. "I looked 'em up in a yearbook! Their names are Scott Cooper, Nate Parkman, and Jason Campbell! They're the ones! Please, David, ye need to be careful around 'em! I don't trust 'em, and I'm..." He sighed. "I'm afraid for ye."

Dave remembered that Cooper and Parkman were part of that brief confrontation at the McKinley junior prom. Campbell was a friend of theirs. Yes, the three were kind of assholes, but so were a lot of people. And yes, they seemed to have a problem with him being gay, but again, so did a lot of people. And yes, they were more aggressive than the rest of the team... but that just made them good hockey players. And yes, they'd been on the other end of most of the accidental hits he'd gotten in practices and games, but...

But...

Dave frowned, trying to complete that sentence.

"I'll go to the principal if ye want," Rory continued. "I know I'm not exactly the best witness, but if it'll get them to stop..."

"No." Dave shook his head. "It won't do any good."

"But we have to do something..."

"I told you, I can take care of myself. I'll watch out, I promise."

"You're sure?" Rory's face was half hopeful, half suspicious.

"Promise. But thanks for warning me, seriously."

Rory nodded. "Like I said, ye and Kurt... You're good people, no matter what the Church says. Brittany too. Santana..." He grimaced. "Maybe not her, but she's still human."

Dave laughed. "That she is."

"Remember, ye promised. Watch out for yourself."

"I will."

Rory gave him one last nervous nod and scampered off. Dave stood there in the hallway, lost in thought — lost for so long, that it was a good ten minutes after he was supposed to be in English Lit that he regained awareness.

* * *

"No one's going to touch me," Santana said flatly.

"I know," Blaine replied as he kept pace beside her.

"So don't some of our other clients need protecting from _real_ threats?"

"Did _you_ ever beat anyone up?"

"No. So what?"

"_So_, you were still one of the most feared bitches in this school." He smiled fondly at the smug smirk that came over her face at that. "Bullying isn't just a physical thing, and we're not the Bully Whips But Only For the Guys Who Punch People either."

"I still don't need you escorting me," she muttered. "I can take care of myself."

"Sure you can. But you shouldn't have to." Blaine paused to raise his sunglasses, shooting a nasty glare at an approaching rugby player who set off a few mental alarm bells. The guy's eyes widened, and he quickly backed off. _Smart man_. "Besides, Brittany would cut me if I didn't do this."

Santana smiled, soft and sad, for a moment before putting her mask back on. "God, me being escorted. This makes me feel like a fucking—"

Blaine maneuvered in front of her; she stopped short. That sort of surprised him; he halfway expected her to just plow on over him. "Not in front of the clients, dear," he said with a condescending grin. He hurried on in a low voice before she could think about slapping him too. "Look, I don't care about your fucking wounded pride or your boo-hooing. I care about making sure this school doesn't start kicking you while you're down. You know they want to, and you may be able to handle that, but like I said, you have enough to worry about without having to deal with a bunch of jealous assholes. So shut up and take the escort before I tell Brittany." He waited, arms folded, for a response.

He didn't get any; Santana was staring at him, slack-jawed. It was an amusing look, especially since it seemed so foreign on her. "I..." she finally sputtered. "When the fuck did you grow balls, Anderson?"

"Come on. You're gonna be late for Modern History." She shut up for the rest of the escort; that in of itself, Blaine knew, was a minor miracle.

* * *

The top headlines from Jacob ben Israel's blog for that week were as follows:

"PRESIDENTIAL SCANDAL! Glee Club Star Caught Stuffing Ballot Box!"

(Kurt approached her not long afterward. "Why?"

She was close to telling him: about Santana's offer, about her realization, her guilt... But she couldn't. She couldn't lay herself bare like that, not now... not yet. So she simply said, "You deserved it.")

"PIERCE WINS! — Cheerio Squeaks Out Narrow Electoral Victory"

("Congratulations," Santana said softly, stroking Brittany's cheek. "At least something good happened during this whole sucky week."

"I'll make things better for you, San," Brittany said with a serious look. "I promise."

"I know. I know you will.")

"Football Coach Breaks Up With OSU Recruiter — Spurned Man Seen Dating Coach Sylvester"

("Never settle," Beiste muttered as she passed by Artie. He looked up, startled, but her back was already to him as she marched down the hall. Artie nodded to himself.)

There was nothing about Santana. An official warning from the Bully Whips (and Santana's hand on Jacob's crotch in a way that did _not_ fit into _any_ of his masturbatory fantasies about her) made sure of that.

* * *

"Tell me again why I needed to be here?" Dave asked as he parked his car in the hospital visitor's lot. Puck had already jumped out the second they'd screeched to a halt, so Dave had to hurry just to keep up.

"Moral support, dude," came the panted reply as Puck increased the gap between them.

"Come on, from what you told me, she's probably fine. Kids go through worse all the time. Hell, my mom always tells this story about how I fell off a balcony at our old house when I was two..." Dave stopped short; was he imagining things, or...? "Hey, you go on ahead without me; I—" He turned to face... an empty space, the sliding doors to the ER gently closing. "Okay... Yeah. I'll... be out here."

Dave carefully circled around a traffic island, keeping himself out of sight. He felt both rather badass and rather foolish, but he had a feeling that caution was warranted in this case. Partially crouching behind a bush, his fleeting first impression was rather grimly confirmed.

Yes, that was indeed Quinn's car; he'd practically memorized the license plate number during his previous... damage control sessions. He squinted, but his eyes couldn't quite penetrate the darkness that shrouded the driver's seat. He had a feeling, though, that she was there.

Technically, there wasn't anything too bothersome here; she gave birth to Beth, and of course she'd be concerned. She was probably the first person Ms. Corcoran called, now that the two were working together in the Troubletones. But she was just sitting there, not even going inside. Why? What was she thinking? What was she waiting for...?

Suddenly, he heard the voice in his head, as clear as though Quinn were right there speaking directly to him. _This is her fault. I wouldn't have let Beth fall like that. She's not a good mother. I would be a good mother, if only I had my daughter back..._

It was a little scary, being able to get into her head like that, but the inarguable _logic_ of it made the words fit together in his head like jigsaw pieces. So did this thought, sliding into his head in his own voice — a voice firm with certainty.

_She's gonna snap. She's gonna do something stupid._

Dave shuddered and crept away, hoping Quinn hadn't seen him. He straightened as the light from the emergency room doors fell on him, his mind churning.

Maybe, he thought, it was because he knew what it was like to be jealous and desperate, to feel like you were trapped in a life of despair, with only one option available, the possibility of hope so bright and shining that it would've been stupid _not_ to reach out and grab it. Only... he knew what lay down that road. He knew what it would lead to, how much it would hurt everyone Quinn cared about, including (especially?) herself. Worse yet, he knew that if she were caught (and she almost certainly would), the consequences wouldn't stop at her loved one hating her.

Okay, then. They'd have to talk. That much was clear. He had to at least try to warn her off this path.

He only hoped that she'd listen to what he had to say.

* * *

There it was: his future resting inside a 9.5 inch by 12 inch envelope, address and postage checked and triple checked. There were barely ten sheets of paper inside, but it was still heavy, weighed down by expectation, hope, and yes, fear.

Kurt Hummel's application to the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts. He'd already sent off his applications to Tisch and other schools (albeit reluctantly, and only at some small prodding by his father), but this... This was the one he sweated over, the one he read and reread and reread for typos and errant ink marks, the only one he was planning to buy delivery confirmation for.

He'd thought of asking Dave to be here for this moment, but he couldn't wait. Besides, this was the kind of moment that one really had to experience alone. So, sucking in a deep breath (and getting dizzy oh God he had to let it out...), he approached the smiling postal clerk (what the hell was she smiling for? Didn't she realize she was about take responsibility for _the rest of his life_? Couldn't she feel the weight of it?!).

Kurt gulped, trying to will some calm into him. He had this. He had this. He had... Oh, God, he didn't have this something was going to go wrong and he... _Okay, good thoughts, good thoughts... Dad is the newest Representative from Ohio. Dave is waiting for you at home, with that new bottle of... Oh, God, not _that_ kind of good thought..._ He hoped his blush wasn't showing as he nodded at the clerk and extended the envelope towards her. She took it (he almost didn't let go for a moment) and his neatly filled out forms and processed them. Kurt paid cash (no sense taking the miniscule risk of something going wrong with a credit or debit card payment, as paranoid as the thought was). The clerk stamped the envelope and attached the proper stickers. "Will that be everything?"

"What? Oh... Yes."

"Here's your receipt. Have a nice day!" The clerk turned around, so she didn't see Kurt stand there, watching as the envelope disappeared from view. He barely resisted the urge to jump the counter just to make _sure_.

So there it was. It was done. The next step would be up to them. He was "supposed" to feel relieved, but the tension in his chest, his gut, just deepened.

Ah, well, at least he wouldn't have to think about it for another couple of months.

Then again, it meant that all he really had left to think about was Sebastian.

_Replacing nerves with nausea. Wonderful._

* * *

The puck slammed against Dave's helmet, staggering him. His ears rang, and he felt his back slam against the cool plexiglass. It had been a glancing blow, all things considered, and hell, that's what the helmets were _for_, but it still felt like his brain was vibrating in his skull.

"My bad!" Jason Campbell yelled as he skated past. Dave didn't see his face as it flashed by — he was skating too quickly. But then, he hadn't even paused to see if he was actually all right, either. Dave ripped off his helmet, trying to knead out ache.

"You okay, man?"

"What? Yeah, Stan, I'm fine."

Stan Paxton, Titans left wing and one of the cooler guys on the team in Dave's opinion, shook his head. "Fucking Campbell. He keeps goofing off like that, he's gonna hurt someone bad one of these days." His voice rose. "Pay attention to where you're fucking shooting!"

"Hey!" Coach Williamson's voice cut in. "Quick slacking and get back to practice!"

Stan snorted. "Of course Coach wasn't paying attention. Assholes like Campbell think they can get away with anything." He slapped Dave's shoulder. "Watch out for him, dude."

Dave nodded as he skated away. Every time something like this happened, he remembered more and more little things he'd dismissed before: trips, accidental hits, body slams, careless shots like that last one. Cooper, Parkman, Campbell... Parkman, Campbell, Cooper... Campbell, Cooper, Parkman...

Kurt was concerned. He saw the way his boyfriend looked at him every time he winced or sucked in a breath through his teeth or rubbed a new bruise. And with Rory's warning... Could it really be...?

Dave took a glance at Coach Williamson. He certainly didn't seem to notice anything amiss going on, and he was a hardened veteran of the sport. Maybe it was just Rory's imagination. After all, it wasn't like anyone was snarling at him in the locker room or harassing him. And hockey was a violent sport, unpredictable — a hundred little things could go wrong, even with the best intentions.

And he loved hockey. God, he loved hockey. If he made waves unnecessarily, he could lose it... Like he lost Dalton, like he lost the Warblers and all his friends...

He couldn't lose this too. He just couldn't.

Besides, they had an important match tomorrow, and he had to get his head in the game. No sense worrying about mere possibility when there was the certainty of the Roth High Cougars in less than 24 hours.

Putting on his game face, Dave returned to the ice, where his teammates were waiting.

**I hope this wasn't too disappointing. Like I said before, I was rather... startled at how little agency Blaine had in canon, and for so long. I'm trying to rectify a lot of stuff, so I can only hope I'm successful! (Especially since, obviously, even more _stuff_ will be happening — a lot from canon, but a lot... not...)  
**

**Now to get to the next chapter of "Lethe"...**


	12. Hold On To Sixteen: On Thin Ice

**AN: So, a wayward cut and paste error deleted my entire chapter when I was about 1/3 through — by far the worst accident I've had thus far. The fact that it only compounds my two month gap (a consequence of having so many fanfic balls in the air) makes me feel worse about it. I use this site directly to write because I tend to work on stories from more than one computer almost at random, so that's the price I pay, I guess. Somehow, though, I don't feel as bad about this as I have similar incidents; frustrated, yes, but not devastated. Maybe because I was unsatisfied with the work I'd done, and I already feel like my restart text is better.  
**

**Ah, well, nobody cares. Onward. :)**

_I'm gonna make a change... for once in my life..._

"So you know what you have to do?"

Jacob ben Israel nodded, his fist closing over the bills in his hand and shoving them into his pocket. "Dig up dirt on Ms. Corcoran. Publish with the biggest head font I can get away with."

Quinn nodded with a grim, satisfied smile. "That's right. There's more where that came from the longer you can drag it out."

"Is anything off-limits?"

"Nothing." The word was almost leaden in its weight; Jacob found himself swallowing down nerves, which was ridiculous — he was a journalist, for God's sake. He should be fearless, his conscience little more than a tinny cricket voice drowned out in the earsplitting siren's call of the _truth_. But something about Quinn's attitude, her expression, dropped his stomach into his pelvis.

If his discomfort showed, the cheerleader took little note of it. "I'll be expecting results soon," she said. With that, she spun on her heel and walked off.

Jacob watched her disappear down the hall. Then he pulled out his cell phone and sent a text. About three minutes later, another student approached. "She talk to you?"

Jacob nodded, taking the money out of his pocket and showing it to the other boy. "Just like you said: she wanted me to dig up dirt on Ms. Corcoran."

"But you aren't, are you?"

Jacob shook his head so hard that his hair visibly bounced. "And cross you? I'm not suicidal."

Dave nodded with a grim, satisfied smile. "Very good. I've almost forgiven you for telling the Internet I was having a 'hot, heavy, and promiscuous foursome'."

"She expects me to do something soon."

"Well, I'll have to confront her long before that. Whatever happens, you won't need to do anything."

"And the money?"

Dave shrugged. "That's up to your conscience."

Having the typical conscience of the tabloid journalist, Jacob stuck the cash back into his pocket and scurried away.

Dave rubbed his eyes wearily. He'd covered as many possible outlets for Quinn's plotting as he and Puck could think of, but there was always the possibility of missing one. For Ms. Corcoran's sake, for Quinn's... He had to do something more decisive, and soon, before Quinn actually succeeded in striking out.

He'd had the feeling all along that he knew all too well what Quinn was feeling — that heart-gripping mix of longing and desperation and fear... Fear of what, he wasn't quite sure, but he could guess.

His own crimes were so clear, when he thought back on them. He could objectively look at what he'd done, what he'd thought, and honestly say, "fuck, I was screwed up." But at the moment, when he was feeling them, when he was mired in his terror and doubt, it all seemed to make so much sense. Or conversely, he was too busy clinging to what wasn't his to hold to realize it _didn't _make sense. So he could understand why Quinn was so not herself, why she felt as though she had no way out but to ruin another person's life.

That didn't mean he could let it happen, though. Dave had only been saved from his own stupidity by being honest, and through the forgiveness of a beautiful person who gave what he would've been perfectly justified to withhold forever.

It was time to pay it forward.

* * *

_It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference...  
__Gonna make it right..._

Kurt stood and applauded. Dave joined him. Puck whooped and did a fist-beat in the air while Mercedes just stared, her jaw almost literally dropped.

Mr. Schue had been on the verge of selecting someone to fill out New Directions — one of many eager Bully Whips clients or the band again — when Finn and Rachel begged him to delay for just a couple of days. They had been very mysterious about their intentions, even to Kurt, which annoyed him to no end. But now, they stood, smug smiles on their faces, as Sam Evans entered the choir room, his face red as he rubbed the back of his neck bashfully.

"We got this far together," Rachel said, almost unheard over the tumult. "It's only right that we finish this together."

"Agreed," Mr. Schue said with a wide, warm smile. "Welcome back, Sam."

"Thanks," he said, his voice tight and raspy, as if charged with emotion barely held back. He took the first empty seat he could, which happened to be right next to Kurt and Dave. As Mr. Schue began talking up Sectionals, Sam glanced over at the two joined hands to his left. "I see some really obvious and inevitable things _finally_ happened while I was away," he muttered softly.

Dave choked back a laugh. Kurt smirked. "Yes, they did," he said simply.

"Yeah. Makes a guy wonder about his own obvious things, doesn't it?" Dave chimed in with a raised eyebrow, looking directly at Sam. "Like maybe now that he has a second chance, he should go for what he wants before it's too late?"

Sam paled a little — a remarkable feat, given his usual complexion. Kurt frowned, turning to Dave. All Dave did was mouth "later." Then Mr. Schue cleared his throat. "Sam? You have a lot of catching up to do, so you'll need to pay attention now."

"Right. Sorry. It's just... it's good to be back."

Mr. Schue's warm smile returned. "Like I said, good to have you back. Now, we've been making good progress on our songs, but our choreography still needs work..."

As everyone's attentions returned to their director, Kurt's mind wandered. _Inevitability..._ Was it really that obvious? God, he kind of hoped not. Plus, he didn't believe in words like "inevitable" and "forever." He'd learned the hard way that good things took work, hard work, not to mention a little bit of luck. And he was damn lucky he had this thing with Dave, especially with all the obstacles — internal and external — that had been thrown into their path.

Dave leaned over, touching his shoulder gently. "Don't forget, we're meeting Sebastian for coffee tomorrow after school."

Like that one.

When Dave had brought up the invitation, Kurt had been tempted to say not just "no," but a Mercedes-esque "oh, _HELL_ no!" Only the realization that Sebastian probably wanted the same stopped him. Letting Dave walk into Sebastian's clutches alone would be the equivalent of letting him French kiss a rabid wolverine... Though the wolverine would probably be gentler.

Still, just the thought of Sebastian and Dave in the same room together was enough to sour his mood for the rest of rehearsal. It was one of his simmering bitchy moods; there were no sarcastic remarks or air snapping — not that he ever did that — just eye-rolls at Rachel's suggestions and snorts at Puck's smart remarks. Dave raised an eyebrow in his direction once or twice that afternoon, but otherwise didn't say anything. Kurt wasn't sure if he should be pleased or annoyed by this. But he supposed his mood was _just_ close enough to normal.

When rehearsal ended, everyone scattered as usual, except for Sam, who casually and conspicuously followed Mercedes. Dave pecked Kurt on the lips. "I got an appointment with Dr. Taylor today. I'll text you after?"

"Certainly. Talk to you then." Kurt watched Dave leave the choir room, because seriously, he could watch Dave forever from _that_ angle...

"Ah... Kurt?" The addressed teen jumped; he'd thought he was alone in the room. He spun around, and immediately saw why he'd been fooled. Rory was a small bloke, never more so than now; he looked nervous, furtive — as if he were slowly collapsing in on himself, like the neutron stars Kurt had just learned about in class.

"Uh... Hi." The two of them hadn't traded a lot of conversation — they really didn't have a lot in common except the glee club — but he seemed nice enough.

"Can I talk to you?" The Irish lilt in his voice stirred something in Kurt. His romantic mind conjured rolling emerald hills, fields of clover, husky men in kilts wearing nothing underneath... No, wait, that was Scotland... Hm, maybe he should have Dave try on that kilt from prom... "Kurt?" Kurt jumped again; he shook his head, chiding himself for letting his imagination run away with him.

"Uh, sorry... What were you saying?"

"It's about Dave."

This time, it was Kurt's heart that jumped, not his body. "Dave? Is there something the matter with him?"

"He's fine... for now. But I get the feelin' he's not listening to me, and I'd hoped not to have to bring you into this, but you're his boyfriend an' all, so maybe you can get him to listen t'reason..."

"What's wrong?" The question came out a lot more harshly than he'd intended, but given the subject matter, he thought he could be forgiven. "What's wrong with Dave?!"

Rory rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, it's like this..."

* * *

_I've been a victim of a selfish kind of love..._

"Would you pass a napkin, please?"

"Certainly."

It was such brittle, jagged politeness that Kurt was surprised that Dave wasn't seeing it. But no, he just smiled, pleased as all get out that his boyfriend and friend were getting along _so_ well.

"That's an interesting drink you've got there," Sebastian remarked. "I should try it sometime. I like my coffee strong, though. I don't go for drinks that are that weak and oversweetened. They're kind of... wimpy."

"Maybe you don't like them," Kurt replied evenly, "but many guys do. It's a nice change from bitter beverages that are just so over the top in trying to overwhelm your tongue."

"Eh, I just like basic coffee, myself," Dave remarked casually as he sipped his brew. "Since it's easy to make, I get it fast, which is definitely a plus. And if they screw up a basic cup of coffee, then you know you're in a lousy place."

Sebastian and Kurt exchanged a look; for one brief moment, they were almost _commiserating_, a thought which sent shudders of revulsion through Kurt.

Still, it wasn't fair to Dave; the subtext may have been obvious to them, but that's what it was: subtext. There was all sorts of things Dave didn't realize, mostly because those involved were doing their best to hide it from him.

_Hiding things from him..._ Even though Kurt knew and believed in his own reasons, just the thought of it made him feel like a massive hypocrite. That just made dealing with Sebastian all the more complicated. He'd burn the contents of his closet before he admitted that, though.

"Speaking of coffee," Dave continued, "I'm going to get another round. Same for you guys?"

"Please," Kurt replied.

Sebastian nodded. "I'll cover you next time."

"Sure thing." Dave got up and got into line. The second he was out of earshot, Kurt whirled on Sebastian with a look that (he hoped) could melt steel. Sebastian responded in the exact way that would infuriate Kurt the most: he leaned back in his seat, folded his hands over his stomach, and smirked.

"You won't get away with this," Kurt hissed through clenched teeth.

Sebastian's eyebrows rose in exaggerated innocence. "Get away with what?"

_Bastard! He's not even letting me tell Dave truthfully that he admitted anything! _"He won't sleep with you. He'll _never_ sleep with you."

"Seems to me that Dave is grown up enough to make his own decisions."

Kurt sputtered. Usually, he'd have a dozen withering thrusts and comebacks, but this guy just made him _so angry_... "So you admit it!"

"I did no such thing. You're being paranoid. And really possessive." Sebastian cocked his head as his eyes bored into Kurt in a way that made him both uncomfortable and even angrier. "A little like how Dave was towards you last year, wasn't it?"

The blow hit home; Kurt sagged a little in his chair, widening Sebastian's smirk. "He... told you about that?"

"Of course. I'm his _friend_, after all." Sebastian tsked, shaking his head. "He still beats himself up over what he did to you, you know. He feels _so_ guilty, even after all this time. And with you assuming that every guy who's friendly towards him is trying to take him away from you..." He continued to talk, not even sparing a glance at how Kurt opened his mouth to deny this. "... Is that really a healthy relationship?"

Kurt tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. Of course he'd thought about that, thought about that a lot. It certainly wasn't the most romantic or auspicious event between two people, especially two trying to build a lasting bond with each other, and knowing that it still haunted Dave might have been a sign that...

He shook his head violently. No! He was _not_ going to reevaluate his relationship based on something said by _Sebastian Smythe_. That's what their trial run during the summer was for. That's what Dave's therapist was for. And those were working out quite well. If there were issues, they'd find them, and work through them. That's what lovers — that's what _friends_ — did. They communicated with each other, they respected each other...

Kurt groaned inwardly, doing his best to keep up his poker face in front of the smarmy bastard sitting across from him. _Oh._ Kurt knew then: he'd have to talk to Dave about Sebastian. He supposed he always sort of knew he'd have to. He still had no idea how he'd do it, or how Dave would react, but Kurt owed it to himself and to Dave to not bottle this up. It would only result in the kind of Bad Things that Sebastian was no doubt hoping for.

But that was for later. Here and now, Sebastian had to know that Kurt was not going to take any of this lying down.

"First of all, I'd keep your opinions on our relationship to yourself. Dave's a lot more perceptive and intelligent than you think. Secondly, Dave knows by now that I've forgiven him. You know, mutual respect? How a relationship between two people _should_ work? Thirdly, if you think your Ken doll looks and oily charm are going to actually appeal to Dave—"

"Defensive, are we?" The calm, dry observation brought Kurt up short. _Goddammit._ His temper had gotten away from him, and gotten a rise out of him — something that probably amused fucking Sebastian to no end. "I hope you're not that way around your boyfriend. If there's something that'd make him look elsewhere... I'd look in a mirror, if I were you."

That tore it. He really _did_ have to talk to Dave about this. He couldn't continue this way. Sooner or later, _something_ would happen, probably prodded by Sebastian. Better to rip off the Band-Aid before worse arose.

Not that it meant that the discussion would be at all easy.

"Here you guys go!" Dave said as he carefully laid cups in front of Kurt and Sebastian. "Sorry that took so long."

"Oh, no problem," Sebastian said airily. "Kurt and I were having a very interesting conversation, weren't we?"

"Yeah. Interesting," Kurt said stiffly.

"What about?" Dave asked casually as he sipped at his freshly made coffee.

Sebastian cast a look at Kurt; Dave turned expectantly in his boyfriend's direction. _Of course_. "Oh... this and that," Kurt said, impressing himself at how calm he actually sounded. "Sebastian was wondering how we got along so well."

Dave chuckled. "Well, we didn't always... And you know that was my fault. But it's because we were friends first, and because we support each other and draw on each other's strengths. And a lot of it is just... love." He caressed Kurt's hand; Kurt tried not to look smug. A nauseated twinge passed over Sebastian's face, but unfortunately, it was long gone by the time Dave turned his attention back to him.

"So..." Sebastian began, "how's your Sectionals prep going?"

Dave's eyes lit up. "Great! I think we've finally gotten the choreography down for—"

Kurt placed a gentle hand on Dave's arm. "Now, now, Dave, remember, we're talking to the _enemy_ here." He smiled sweetly in Sebastian's direction; the other returned it with entirely too much teeth.

Dave laughed. "Oh, yeah, right. Sorry, Seb. Too bad the Warblers' is on the same night. It'll be our... their first Sectionals I haven't seen or been a part of." Dave bit his lip, his brow furrowing and his eyes becoming downcast.

"Yeah. I'm sorry," Sebastian said softly. Kurt marveled at just how sincere it sounded.

"Well, maybe we'll meet at Regionals," Kurt noted.

Dave's head bowed a little. "Yeah." Kurt mentally kicked himself; Dave hadn't talked a lot about it, but _of course_ he was feeling torn over the idea of competing against his former friends. Hadn't Kurt himself felt exactly the same when he was at Dalton? He made a mental note to bring it up later (among other topics); for now, he just laid his hand over Dave's, who responded with an appreciative squeeze. To his credit, Sebastian's eyes flickered only briefly towards the gesture before returning his gaze to faces.

"Well, until then..." He raised his cup. "To the Warblers and New Directions. May they brutally slaughter anyone stupid enough to get in their way."

Dave's mouth twisted into a smirk as he "clinked" his cup against Sebastian's. "I'll drink to that."

"Hear hear," Kurt added as he followed Dave's gesture with a significant raised eyebrow. But the target of that eyebrow appeared to take no notice as he calmly drank.

* * *

_A willow deeply scarred...  
Somebody's broken heart...  
And a washed out dream..._

In the cramped confines of the auditorium, the voices seemed to echo from every direction, even in the wings.

_They follow the pattern of the wind, you see...  
But they've got no place to be...  
That's why I'm starting with me...  
_

Quinn watched as New Directions went through their performance with an almost clockwork precision that was almost impossibly fused with a sense of warmth, energy, and ease. To her shock, Finn was _not_ the main male lead; Artie was. Apparently, those rumors about Mr. Schue's "change of heart" were true. She didn't think he had it in him.

She glanced over at the other Troubletones. Santana and Brittany were watching with flat affects, but the others... Sugar and Ronnie in particular actually looked a little worried. She knew how they felt.

Nothing was working out. Ben Israel was still working on his end ("Good gossip takes time! Either you have to research, or you need to make up a _really_ plausible rumor! Either way, the creative process cannot be rushed!"), and none of Quinn's other... projects had worked out. It was as though forces were working against her. It was as frustrating as all hell.

Having her child so tantalizingly in reach, close enough to brush fingertips... Yet not have her in her arms...

The parties were the worst. She actually got to _see_ Beth then, hear her laugh, melt under the warmth of her smile... _Her_ daughter. Not Corcoran's. _Hers_.

Nothing was working. Smearing Shelby wasn't working. Getting close to her wasn't working.

She stared out the stage.

_This_ wasn't working.

What was left? Taking Beth? Just grabbing her and running? Where would she go? Was it even possible?

_It would have to be in the middle of the night. She knew the layout of Corcoran's apartment. The security would be the hard part; the windows could easily be pried open..._

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the sound of applause. New Directions were taking their bows. She glanced at the others, at their faces, and her heart sank. They were thinking the same things she was. Well, maybe not _exactly_ the same, but an idea of who'd won this night was slowly starting to sink in...

_Nothing was working._

* * *

_Take a look at yourself and make a change..._

If it hadn't been for Congress, Kurt Hummel might not have been able to get any nearly as often as he wanted.

It would have seemed like a massive non-sequitur to most, but looking a little more closely at his life, it made more sense.

After all, being official boyfriends with Dave... _altered_ Burt Hummel's interactions with him. Not that Burt was unfriendly towards Dave or anything like that, but it was obvious that he was highly... conscious of when the two boys were together... and who else was present when they were together. Which Burt made certain was _someone_.

"Going to visit Dave? Are Artie's parents home...? Oh. Okay, good. Have a good time, then."

But with Congress in session and freshman representatives having to learn the ropes of Washington DC, that meant a lot more time without a meddling father looking over Kurt's shoulder, leaving a much more open minded stepmother and a frankly easy to manipulate puppy dog of a stepbrother. And that meant many _many_ sensuous moments for Mama Hummel's little boy much like this one, safely closed in Kurt's room, the sound of lips smacking against each other only barely audible under the roar of a passing car.

Unfortunately, life couldn't pause for the important things. So while Kurt certainly appreciated Dave's hand inching towards his pants zipper, he had to tell himself not to get distracted. _Dead puppies, Republicans, Coach Sylvester..._ "Dave...?"

"Mmm? What's the matter? Jeans of yours getting a little tight?"

Well, yes, they were, but again, he couldn't be distracted. _Dad and Carole, together..._ Okay, that did the job, a little _too_ well, in fact. "Dave... We need to talk."

"Oh?" Dave breathed in his ear, the tickling sending shudders right through him. "I thought we needed to make out. And do... other stuff."

Kurt found the strength to gently push Dave away from him a little. Without the feeling of warm flesh pressed against his, his mind began to clear. "I'm serious, Dave."

Dave's face fell for a moment, then became concerned. "What's the matter?"

"First, let me test something." Kurt's hand whipped up, and slapped Dave on the right shoulder. Dave sucked in a loud breath through clenched teeth. "I thought so. Shirt off. Let me see it."

"I thought you said you wanted to talk..." Dave waggled his eyebrows. But the attempt at diversion completely fell flat. Kurt merely crossed his arms and glared, instantly deflating his much larger boyfriend.

"I said, let me see it."

Dave sighed, and took off his shirt. It was a tribute to his state of mind that Kurt didn't find the act at all sexy at the moment. Instead, his eyes focused on the splotch of purple skin on Dave's shoulder. It somehow looked even worse than the one he'd seen the night he and Dave first made love — perhaps it was the better lighting. Or maybe it was his new knowledge. Either way...

"Kurt, it's not—"

"Stop right there, David Karofsky. I know what you're about to say. Yes, it _is_ a big deal."

"But it—"

"It _does_ hurt. You just demonstrated that to me, remember?"

"It'll be—"

"I know it'll be fine, but that's not the _point_. You shouldn't have it to begin with."

Dave sighed. "Should I even bother to finish my sentences?"

"David, Rory told me everything."

Kurt felt Dave's muscles tighten under his touch. "He did, did he?"

"He was right to. He's concerned about you, and so am I."

"There's nothing to be concerned _about_!" Dave jumped to his feet and began pacing the room. "It's hockey. It's a sport, it gets a little violent sometimes. I can handle it!"

"You forget that I know a lot about hockey by now. I was taught by someone very patient and knowledgeable." Despite the seriousness of a situation, a ghost of a smile flickered over both their lips. "You can't fool me anymore, David. I know the sport, and I know you. You should _not_ be this hurt, not this often." He took a breath. "I think Rory's right. Those guys must be targeting you."

"He's just being paranoid..."

"It's the only explanation that fits!" Kurt burst out. "I know what guys like them are like!"

"And you think I don't?" Dave asked quietly.

Memories of Sadie Hawkins dances crashed into Kurt's skull. "I... Oh, God, Dave, I didn't mean it like that."

"I know you didn't." Dave's voice was flat, weary. "But this is a completely different situation..."

"I'm not so sure, not if they're doing this to you. You can't keep putting yourself in harm's way!"

"I'm a hockey player, Kurt. That's what I do."

"But you shouldn't be having to guard against your own teammates...! Gah!" Kurt's fingers tore at his hair, heedless in his emotional turmoil of what the gesture must have been doing to his carefully planned coif. "Goddammit, you are the most _stubborn_ man I have _ever_ known..."

"Yeah, well, I think I know someone even more stubborn." Dave grinned; Kurt snorted despite himself.

"_Touche_. But stop trying to deflect."

"Kurt, I..." Dave sighed, a long and jagged exhale that visibly deflated his chest. "Please, I... I can't lose hockey. I've lost so much, please don't take hockey away from me too..." His voice had gone weak, timid, as if he were five years old and begging for his parents not to send him to his room. Kurt could almost hear the snap of his heart breaking in his chest.

"Dave... Listen to me. I'm not trying to take anything from you..."

"I know, I know... I just... if I lose this... I don't know what else I'll have left."

"Well," Kurt said in a mock hurt tone, "you'll have a boyfriend who loves you very much..."

"And?" Dave laughed as Kurt punched him in his unbruised shoulder, and god, what other sound could have been better at that moment — or _ever_ — than Dave laughing?

"Seriously, David... Dave? Look at me." Kurt gently placed his hands on Dave's cheeks and raised his face so their eyes met. "I'm only going to tell you this once, because it's so blindingly obvious that you should know it by now: you're worth something. In fact, you're worth a lot, a hell of a lot more than some hockey thugs." Dave blushed; Kurt pressed on, praying he was getting through. "I know this year's been hard for you, but you have to remember that you're more than what you do. I know you love hockey, but you need to think of yourself first. There are so many people who care about you..." Kurt had to swallow down a lump in his throat before continuing. "I'm just so worried about you. I don't know what I'd do if those bastards seriously hurt you..."

Dave's eyes were shining under the lamplight. Kurt hoped that meant he was starting to _listen_. "You don't have to worry about me..." Dave began hoarsely.

"But I do. Because I love you. I'll keep telling you that until you understand: so many people love you, Dave. Even if you never stepped out onto the ice again, I'd still love you." He paused — perhaps now was the time to switch tacks. "Besides, why should _you_ have to give up hockey? It's those Neanderthals that deserve to lose it. They're the ones who're attacking the Titans' star player just because they're homophobic assholes. They're the ones who're doing wrong. They're the bad people. Not you."

"Kurt, I..."

"Just... be careful. And think hard, very hard, about what I've said. Stop ignoring it. Stop thinking it's normal. And for god's sake, if you start thinking you deserve it, I'll personally kick your ass."

Dave laughed. "Gotcha." He took Kurt's hands into his; they were rough but oh so warm. "I'm sorry I worried you. I'll watch out for myself, I swear."

"You'd better. I'm going to personally make sure of it." There was a pause.

"So... Is that it? Can we get back to the making out now? I promise I'll watch out for those guys and do something about them if they really are targeting me, okay?"

Kurt looked deep into Dave's eyes. He used to think that the old cliche about them being windows into the soul was a bunch of poetic claptrap, but with Dave, it was true. Maybe it was because of their long relationship, predating even the thought of romance, but it was as though he could _see_ Dave's inner workings through his eyes. And what he was seeing now... Dave was telling the truth. He really had broken through. He, Kurt Hummel, had broken through. A heady rush, a mix of triumph, smugness, and pleasure, stirred within him. So...

"Yes, we can get back to the making out now."

"Thank fucking God. C'mere, sexy..."

* * *

_'Cause when you close your heart...  
Then you close your mind..._

The sun had set over an hour ago, but Quinn barely noticed. The lights shining from Ms. Corcoran's windows seemed warmer, brighter, than the streetlights or surrounding homes, just because she knew Beth was bathed in that same glow. She picked at her lip, her free hand tapping idly on the steering wheel. Beth was a little night owl, just like her real mommy, so it would be hours before Shelby went to bed. That would give her time... Time... to do what? Plan? Think?

She really wasn't sure yet.

There was a light tap on the passenger side window; Quinn nearly jumped out of her seat. Dave Karofsky was leaning against the car, his face shadowed and unreadable in the harsh overhead glare of the street lamps. Somehow more annoyed than anything else, Quinn turned the key in the ignition and rolled down the window. "What?" she snapped.

"We need to talk."

Four words. Just four simple words. But it didn't take volumes of flowery prose to create a lot of meaning.

She wanted to tell him to fuck off. God knew he probably deserved it. Hell, just his being there told her a lot that made him look a lot worse in her eyes.

But she realized something in that moment: she was just... _tired_. Tired of school, tired of life, tired of despair... Tired of _everything_.

So really, it was because she didn't feel the strength to argue that she just hit the unlock button and said "Whatever." Dave opened the passenger door and slipped gracefully in. "So it was you all this time," she said flatly.

To his credit, Dave just nodded. "Yeah."

"So why are you here?"

"I knew things couldn't go on the way they have."

"Yeah?" The bitterness was back. "How would you know?" Dave didn't answer. The silence stretched until even she couldn't stand it. "Who got you to come between me and my baby? Kurt? Rachel?"

"Puck."

Quinn snorted. "Of course. Fucker has to ruin my life _again_."

"He was concerned about you."

"Like that means anything to me." In the back of her mind, even she wondered at the volume and potency of the venom in her voice. But she was so turned inward, so overwhelmed with a hundred thousand thoughts and feelings, that she was... numb. It was almost an effort to just talk.

"New Directions cares about you too."

"Like hell you do!" she shouted, whirling on Dave. "Where were you all when my life was falling apart? Where were you when I needed you?"

"You disappeared during the summer. Everyone was wondering what had happened..."

"New York." The words were so quiet that even Quinn barely heard herself speak them.

"What?"

"New York." Her hands worried at each other; she could barely do more and still hold back the tears. "When we were there for Nationals, I... I had a plan. Shelby lived there, you know... If it hadn't been for Nationals, I never would've been able to go there without anyone getting suspicious. I found Shelby's address, and I was gonna..." She trailed off.

"Going to...?" Dave asked gently.

"I... I'm not even sure anymore. Maybe I wanted to see if I made the right decision. Maybe I wanted to know how Shelby was doing with my baby. Maybe I just wanted to see Beth one more time. I... don't know. Things were kind of fucked up for me even back then, what with Puck and all...

"Anyway, as soon as I could, I separated from the others and went to Shelby's apartment building. I was almost there when I realized that I couldn't just knock on their door, and I was starting to think I'd gone all that way for nothing, when... I saw them. They were in a small park across the street. Shelby had Beth in her lap while she was on one of the swings, and..."

Quinn sniffled. Goddammit, this was not the time to cry. Not in front of him.

"Beth was laughing..." she continued. "Shelby too. They were having such a good time, and they both looked so happy, and... I couldn't take it anymore. I ran all the way back to the hotel. The next day, we blew Nationals. That's when I realized."

"Realized?"

"I'm alone. My dad's gone. My mom can barely look at me most of the time. Finn broke up with me, and I can't go back to Puck. Santana and Brittany are too wrapped up in each other to give a damn about me, and the rest of those Cheerio bitches haven't given me any fucking respect since sophomore year." Her words were starting to run together on her tongue, in her head. It was as though she'd sprung a leak, the hole getting larger and larger as the built up pressure pressed through the opening. "Everybody's there for fucking Santana and nobody's there for me and I'll never have my baby back and she was my last chance and I'm completely alone..."

Her fists pounded at the steering wheel. She barely felt the tears running down her face, even as salty as they were on her lips. Her head bowed — whether in despair or in shame, she had no idea. Maybe a lot of both. A large, warm hand settled on her shoulder.

"You're not alone," Dave said softly. "You never were. I wouldn't have ever have done anything if you were."

She shook her head silently, the tears still flowing. He didn't understand, he had no fucking idea...

"I've been where you are," Dave continued. She laughed bitterly through her silent sobs. "Not exactly, but I've been in a bad place, where everything seemed hopeless and I was worthless. That's how I knew things were serious with you... I guess I saw a lot of me in you." There was a slight tremble to his voice; that alone brought Quinn up short. _Maybe... Could he really know?_

"Why?" she said, shaking her head as she reached for a tissue in the glove compartment. "You barely know me..."

"But I like what I do know," he replied simply. "Just from knowing the people who care about you... You must be someone pretty special yourself to count those kinds of people as friends. And hey, did you know Sam's back?"

Quinn nodded. "If he'd only been here from the start... Maybe he could've... We..." She shook her head. No sense dwelling on that particular regret.

"If I could ask you something now... I was expecting a lot more resistance than this. Frankly, I thought you were going to drive away as soon as you saw me, and I was a little surprised not to see Beth in your back seat either." Quinn laughed, still that note of bitterness. "So... what's changed?"

She didn't answer for a long while, instead staring out her window at Shelby's home. Dave waited patiently. "I was actually thinking of doing it," she said in a near-whisper. "Kidnapping Beth. Just breaking in and taking her and driving away somewhere where we could live in peace." She ran her fingers through her hair. "I know it's insane. I always knew it's insane. What kind of life could I give her? A single mother, no high school diploma, fake identity, on the run? But I wanted to do it so bad anyway..." Her knuckles shone white in the glaring artificial light that penetrated the car. "I guess even I had my limit. Between you screwing with me and losing Sectionals... I just reached my limit, I suppose. I'm just... I'm just tired." She sighed, leaning her head against the cold glass window. "Sugar's already losing interest in the Troubletones now that we're out of it. Now I don't even have a glee club."

Dave smiled mysteriously. "I wouldn't be so sure. I've heard someone's been looking into ways to bend the rules."

Another silence followed, so deep that Quinn could hear the howl of the wind outside. "So what now?"

"Why don't we start with some hot chocolate?"

Quinn raised an eyebrow, an arch smile coming over her face (it'd been so long since she smiled... when was the last time? She couldn't remember). "I don't see any hot chocolate, Karofsky."

"No, but Ms. Corcoran has some. She's expecting us."

Quinn could actually _feel_ the blood drain out of her face; she'd thought that was only some tired cliche tossed out by the novels she read in Lit class. "What?"

"I guess she wants to thank you for your hard work with the Troubletones. Maybe arrange times when you and Puck can see Beth..."

"But... why? After everything I've done...?"

Dave chuckled. "What have you done? I was running myself fucking ragged stopping all of it, remember?" His face turned serious. "There is one thing, though..." He reached into his pocket and drew out a small white card. He held it out to Quinn, who stared at it for a moment before taking it.

"Dr. Alicia Taylor... A therapist?"

"My therapist," Dave said. "She's a really good listener, and she's helped me a lot." He reached over and gently touched her shoulder. Quinn surprised herself by feeling only the barest flash of the urge to draw it away. "You need help, Quinn. The things you've thought of doing... You know now it's not normal. And it sounds like you really need someone to talk to anyway."

Quinn stared down at the card. It was ridiculous, but... "Yeah," she said before she could stop herself. She slipped the card into her own pocket. Just in case, mind you.

"So..." Dave opened the car door, admitting the chill late autumn air. "How about that hot chocolate?"

Quinn looked out the window again, at the lights coming from Shelby's home. It'd lost none of its warmth, none of its lure. And she was tired of raging, tired of fighting. Why not just let the current carry her for once? Whether it was as Beth's mother, or just a friend of the family... Whether it was talking to this Dr. Taylor or going it alone...

Why not just see what happens?

"Yeah." She put on a smile (she was good at that) as she unbuckled her seat belt and opened the car door. "Sounds good."

* * *

_And no message could've been any clearer..._

Dave Karofsky felt better than he had for a long time — definitely since he had to leave Dalton. Maybe because he felt like he was doing something to actually take a little responsibility and control in life, a common theme in his therapy discussions. Not that he was passive — just that he had an insular, reactive mind at times, and that taking charge and being active sometimes would, according to Drs. Taylor and Macey, do his self-confidence a world of good.

They were right, of course. He'd known that already from his volunteer work, but helping Quinn further emphasized the point, even if he had been "forced" into it at first. He prayed that she'd take his advice seriously and see Dr. Taylor (or anyone, really), but from the way the two had parted after spending the evening with Ms. Corcoran and Beth, he had reason to hope. Beth really was a cute kid, very energetic and _loud_ when she was in a good mood. "I was much the same when I was her age," Ms. Corcoran had said. Quinn had only smiled, a little tightly, and returned her attention to Beth, which Dave counted as significant.

It was funny how life worked out sometimes. True, he would've preferred never to have hurt his best friend in the first place, but he couldn't argue that where he was now was bad. He'd made the best he could of the Dalton situation, was still active in a show choir that had a lot of potential to go far in competition, he was playing hockey, and most of all, he _somehow_ still had Kurt, as a friend and a partner.

Sometimes he wondered if he deserved this life, as charmed as it seemed sometimes. But then, both Dr. Taylor and Dr. Macey warned him against this kind of thinking, so he pushed the thought away as hard as he could. He had more important things to concentrate on.

A shrill whistle blew. "Come on, Karofsky!" Coach Williamson barked. "You can hustle better than that!"

"Sorry, coach!" It was just so goddamn easy to get lost in yourself on the ice, with how little effort it took to glide seemingly forever, how little of a turn in the foot it took to go in lazy overlapping circles. It was quite a jarring contrast with the rough, physical game of hockey, which is why Dave needed to get his head back in the fucking game — or fucking practice, in this case. Intra-team scrimmage games were always interesting; they gave you an idea of what your teammates' styles, strengths, and weaknesses were. Coach Williamson always treated their results very seriously, discussing various plays and notes with each member individually in the days following scrimmages. It was that kind of attention to detail and dedication (surprisingly rare in high school athletics, Dave had found) that made Coach such a force in the sport. McKinley was damn lucky to have someone like him in—

The impact rattled his teeth and sent him flying backwards. His skates hissed as he skidded across the ice; he felt cold plastic slam against his back, knocking the wind out of him briefly. Dave's skates flew out from underneath him and he crashed onto the ice. He shook his head as his vision came back into focus.

"Sorry 'bout that, Karofsky!" Nate Parkman called out as he skated by. Funny, now that he was really listening, just how insincere the apology sounded. Funny, now that he was really paying attention, how the fact that he didn't even pause to see if Dave was all right just jumped out...

"Shit, that looked like that hurt." A gloved hand intruded into Dave's vision. Stan Paxton was standing over him, wryly offering a lift. Dave took it, and felt himself yanked back into a standing position. He nodded gratefully, as bros do.

"Hey..." Dave swallowed. Why was he so afraid of asking this question? Because he knew what it meant if he got the "wrong" answer, obviously. But he'd promised Kurt. He'd promised himself. He deserved better. He just had to keep telling himself that. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I take a lot of hits, right?"

"Yeah. We all do." Stan frowned. "But now that I think about it, you take a whole _hell_ of a lot..."

Dave's heart began to sink, but he pressed on regardless. "Not that it's anyone's fault..."

Stan glowered. "If it IS anyone's, it's Cooper's. He should be fucking covering you instead of chasing after the puck. And Campbell? Sometimes I don't think he remembers there are other guys on the ice besides him. Don't get me started on fucking Parkman and his lack of fucking control. I have no idea why Coach keeps him on the team sometimes."

And there it was. Those three names, brought up completely without prompting. Dave would've been impressed at the unexpected success if his stomach weren't bouncing around somewhere around his knees.

"Dave?" He jumped at his name. Stan was starting at him in concern. "You all right?"

"Stan..." He swallowed, his throat suddenly sandpaper dry. "You've got my back, right?"

"Hell, yeah! A lot of us do. We don't wanna piss you off; you and Coach turned this team around. Why?"

A harsh whistle stuffed Dave's forming words back into his opened mouth. "Paxton! Karofsky! Get moving!"

"Thanks, man," was all Dave said, clapping his hand on his shoulder and skating back out into center ice, grim.

That tore it. He couldn't deny it anymore. He couldn't keep ignoring it — if not for Kurt's sake, for his own.

He'd have to do something about those three. Even if it meant losing the sport he loved... He had to do _something_.

_Take a look at yourself...  
And make a..._  
_Change..._

**As I've said before, finding some agency for Dave was a little rough, considering Blaine's odd lack of it in canon. Hopefully this helped.**

**Anyway, looking at my notes, it's surprising how quickly things go to hell. :) And since next chapter has a couple of gags I've been dying to use since before I even started this, hopefully it won't take another two months!**


End file.
